I am trying very hard to read Michel Houellebecq's Platform.

I am trying very diligently.

I have, in the past, been known to truly enjoy books with asshole narrators.

But this is some tedious shit, no matter what the pages of blurbs in the front say. Little Children had three pages of blurbs, and it was sharp, funny, observant and real. This? This is indulgent blandness about a guy who spends too much time hating things about people. I sure hope I stop doing that by the time I'm 40.

Tell me why I'm wrong. Please. I'll tell you if it gets better.