A narrator is struggling to come to terms with... what? Life...? Love...? I'm left uncertain. Nothing happens, nothing is resolved, nothing is changed, gained, learned and so I felt that there was no real story here, just a bunch of isolated moments strung together. Take one out, and nothing at all changes. Life is like that, yes, we know, but I don't think that open-ended approach really works in books: as a reader I want something to get my teeth into, and someone to care about.
Which brings me to the narrator, who is flippant and irritating but thinks she's incredibly smart and witty and deep. Interspersed with a lot of detailed accounts of her indie outfits and Converse are endless descriptions of her every movement are a lot of words about the sky and the pavement, desperate to seem cool rather than tell the truth. She's self-obsessed and completely non-committal about anything, and frankly, it's boring.
Woman cannot survive on atmosphere alone. And I defy you to eat an avocado with just your hands.