Let me start off with a word of caution: this is not a well-written book. Its liberal use of various verb tenses mixed together is often confusing. And there are tiny details here and there that make it less believable. For instance, this is petty, but I couldn’t get over the fact that she described Bogotá as hot and muggy. However, beyond that lies something worth learning, something necessary. Something sticky that starts dripping on every second spent on social media, clinging to all that wasted time, turning it heavy. What are we doing? Why are we donating our time, our entire lives to these people? We’re nothing to them, and we’re getting nothing out of this transaction.
I can tell that this whole experience has been very hard for the author to process. It is clear she hasn’t yet come to terms with it, or rather, with the fact that she was a part of it, too. She claims the moral high ground repeatedly, but we must absolve her of all blame because she had a mortgage to pay and health insurance to secure. Financial reasons aside, it’s not hard to understand why she did not walk out of that genocidal Devil-Wears-Prada-esque job when it first started gnawing at her dignity. After all, this is a person who was ignored and belittled by her parents after a literal shark attack as a child. She does not know dignity.
To sum up, this is not the best-crafted book, and it can be infuriating at times, but what’s infuriating about it oscillates between the writing, the author’s cowardice, and the callousness of those she works for—those to whom we have generously granted our personal information and precious waking hours.