Why Critics Are Calling What If I’m the Problem? the Little Prince of Our Generation
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(And why it’s not even a book—it’s a psychological structure in drag.)
If The Little Prince were written by someone spiraling on ecstasy, haunted by their own patterns, and secretly building a metaphysical trap disguised as a gay diary—it would look like this.
But this isn’t poetry in a party dress. This is architecture. This is story-as-system. And the comparisons to The Little Prince aren’t about whimsy. They’re about what happens when someone turns their chaos into fable—and dares you to see yourself in it.
1. It’s Not a Memoir. It’s a Mindfuck.
You think you’re reading a confession. But what you’re actually reading is a perfectly timed sequence of spirals, flashbacks, and emotional mirrors that fold in on themselves like a psychological origami.
It looks like vulnerability.
It feels like storytelling.
But underneath?
It’s engineering.
Like The Little Prince, it’s not trying to impress you.
It’s trying to reveal you—to yourself.
2. Loneliness Is the Villain—But It’s Wearing Ten Different Costumes.
The book never says “I am lonely.” That would be too easy.
Instead, you get:
- Home parties curated like temples
- Crushes used as spiritual bait
- Emotional debt disguised as skincare routines
- A gay sauna date turned ghost story
Every chapter is a disguise. Every disguise is a decoy.
And underneath all of them? Loneliness. Lurking. Quiet. Operative.
Just like The Little Prince, it never names the ache.
It just builds a world around it and lets you sit there—alone in the sand—with nothing but the echo of your own wants.
3. It’s Structured Like a Story. But It’s Built Like a Breakdown.
There are no chapters. There are traps.
What starts as a club story becomes a revelation.
What starts as unrequited love becomes spiritual math.
What starts as a joke becomes a eulogy in disguise.
You don’t notice the foreshadowing until the damage has already been done.
You think you’re halfway through—and then you realize you’ve looped back to the beginning with new eyes, new guilt, new context.
It’s not linear.
It’s recursive.
Like The Little Prince, it doesn’t unfold.
It circles.
And the more you read, the more it reads you.
4. It Refuses to Teach—Which Is Exactly Why It Teaches.
There is no advice here. No “rise above.” No lesson neatly wrapped in a quote card.
What you get instead is:
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A perfectly functional gay adult who just survived something unspoken
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A high-functioning life built like a haunted house
-
A man walking through daily routines while carrying a countdown in his chest
The power of this book isn’t that it explains pain.
It’s that it doesn’t flinch when it shows you what pain actually looks like.
Not a breakdown.
A Tuesday.
5. This Book Doesn’t Want to Be a Bestseller. It Wants to Be a Mirror.
This is why people will reread it.
Why they’ll underline things they don’t want to admit.
Why they’ll DM friends at 2 AM whispering “you need to read this” but also “I can’t explain why”.
This book doesn’t perform trauma.
It systematizes it.
And just like The Little Prince—
It breaks your heart in lowercase.
No climax.
No crescendo.
Just a quiet realization that maybe… the mess was never external.
Maybe the question isn’t “Will I be okay?”
Maybe it’s:
💭 What if I’ve been carrying the question wrong this whole time?
So yes. The comparison is accurate.
Not because it’s soft. But because it cuts gently.
Not because it’s poetic. But because it’s coded.
Not because it teaches. But because it refuses to lie.
What If I’m the Problem? isn’t the story of someone broken.
It’s the story of someone building.
A system. A narrative. A mirror.
And once you see it?
You can’t unsee it.
Just like the fox.
Just like the rose.
Just like yourself.