What the fuck is up with YA authors and their need to write in script form and/or use bullet points? This book was quarter teleplay, half to-do list, and a quarter actual novel. It was jarring as hell for me the way Andrews hopped back and forth and all over with his style choices. I couldn't catch the flow because no flow existed, so something that should have been a one-sitting read ended up taking me four days to complete. Oh, and seriously, people, this is a novella. If you tell me this was over 40,000 words I'll call you a liar and be able to sleep at night.
Now, a word on the content of this bloated short story.
The theme is as follows:
Sometimes, boring people get cancer. Having a terminal disease does not make you cooler. Moreover, simply knowing and being around a terminally-ill person does not make you a better human being. Sometimes, people try to do nice shit for each other and other people shit on those nice things. Compassion is subjective. You're a not terrible person for not loving everybody who has cancer.
In summation: If you want that lesson beaten over your head for the course of what amounts to a really long short story, by all means, read this. I guess it's supposed to be a comedy, but I only laughed three times: Mom and the boobs on the computer, Earl eating the cuttlefish, and the word "Fuckburglar". Other than that, this book was just as boring as the dying girl.
Final Judgment: Yes, in fact, boring people do get cancer. Did I mention boring people get cancer? Because boring people get cancer. If you're boring, try not to get cancer because people will be wicked upset that they couldn't use your death to better themselves because you were so wicked boring. Okay? Okay, bye.
(I have three cancer survivors in my family and have lost one family member and two friends to various forms of that fucking disease. Fuck cancer and fuck this book for making it seem like it's just something we have to deal with. Something on par with dirty laundry and a toddler stepping on your nuts.)