If I were clever enough to write a review with the wit of Tina Fey’s new memoir, Bossypants, I would have to drop out of school and start producing and starring in my own television show. Fortunately enough for the American public, that’s not the case.

Bossypants is a quick, two-hour package of short biographical stories about Fey’s life. It reads like an anthology of random remembrances pieced together in chronological order: the only smooth continuity between her tales lies in the unrelenting and amusing sarcasm Fey is known for.

Fey’s flitting from moment to moment between kindergarten, adolescence, Saturday Night Live, parenthood, and her career of producing 30 Rock brings up the question of her intent for the book.

One story veers surprisingly deep, grappling with what truly accepting her gay friends meant to Fey in her teenage years. Other stories stay surprisingly shallow. I laughed when she wrote that commercials for feminine products on television led her, as a child, to believe her period would be a blue liquid. Reading about Fey’s father is equally entertaining: any student would understand my calling him a true “beast.”

To complicate matters, there is a subtle feminist undercurrent sprinkled throughout the book alongside copious expletives. In the introduction, Fey explains that she titled the book Bossypants because she gets questions that she is sarcastically sure Donald Trump fields on a regular basis, like “Is it hard for you, being the boss?” She rhapsodizes on Saturday Night Live’s Amy Poehler and the bias against women in comedy. Fey also writes about how she juggles family and work, like a stereotypical career mom’s life on steroids.

Finally, no memoir would be complete without references to the autobiographer’s cultural origins, and Fey does not disappoint: “what nineteen-year-old Virginia boy doesn’t want a wide-hipped, sarcastic Greek girl with short hair that’s permed on top?” Fey’s heritage is used as another continuous source of humor in many of the stories.

However, none of these ideas – culture, feminism, deep introspection, or anything, really – grow into a full, circular, bundled-up work. Instead, the full story of Fey’s life is constructed of fragments: glimpses of made-for-TV moments written in punch-line form with an occasional moral thrown in the mix.

Perhaps this fragmentation is a true reflection of her and the many facets of her life: she is a comedian, actress, producer, and mother, and she plays any other roles. Perhaps Fey understands that, no matter how much she wrote, the reader would not be able to grasp her as a complete person and so she might as well make it quick.

Or maybe, with a cover featuring a composite of Fey’s face with a man’s hairy arms, Bossypants is simply what it looks like: just funny.