After finding myself rolling my eyes at yet another Internet ad for HBO’s new series, Girls, I had to finally admit to myself that my aversion to Lena Dunham is because I’m utterly and completely jealous of her.
I’ve never wanted to be that girl who dislikes other girls simply because they have something I don’t. I try to be supportive of my gender because we girls need to look out for one another. I think Dunham said it herself in a recent interview, “a success for one woman is a success for all of us.”
Or she could have not said that, I’m not sure. I’ve read so many freaking articles about her lately, I can’t keep track. But if she did say that, maybe she’s right. Maybe she’ll pave the way for us narcissistic twenty-somethings who love talking about our less than unique neuroses and “problems.” We need a champion, damnit!
Or maybe she just fucked us all.
My contention with Dunham developed after viewing the first 20 minutes of her freshman feature, Tiny Furniture. My initial excitement for the film quickly turned to revulsion when I realized that not only could I not relate to the film, but I couldn’t understand what all the hubbub was about.