Wow. This is, um, amazingly purple prose. Also an incredible amount of whiplash as the author takes the reader from the middle of a modern lesbian club, to a the main character's grandfather taking a shit in an open field in 1957, and back to the club again in the space of about three paragraphs. Also there was a throwaway bit about one of her neighbors who is a white supremest with a secret love for Pakistani girls he expresses by raping them. Or something. It was a throwaway detail (like almost every other detail in this book so far) so I'm not sure what's going on. Chekhov's gun or just a random detail thrown in there for color? I'd be outraged if I weren't so disoriented.