"You're not allowed to read anymore of those books," my friend P. pronounced, "No wonder you are so mentally ill." I'm not really mentally ill, but like most people, I do have my issues. Those books my friend was referring to are what I like to call 'crazy books' - books written by authors who come from highly dysfunctional families and/or have emotional issues of their own.
I am currently reading Naked by David Sedaris, an author whose long list of childhood obsessive compulsive tics makes Howard Hughes look well-adjusted. I also found supreme enjoyment in reading Augusten Burroughs's Running with Scissors, a memoir where calling the cast of characters 'nutjobs' could be considered a euphemism.
A common trait in both of these books is that they are side-splittingly funny. I marvel at the ability of these authors to find humor in the midst of the most tragic situations. In addition, it is very encouraging that people with such obvious personality flaws find a way to be incredibly successful. There is hope for me yet.
Despite P.'s suggestion, I'm going to continue reading my crazy books. They are well-written, intelligent, funny and they don't seem to have any negative effects on my mental health at all. At least, that's what the nurse tells me everytime she comes to give me my meds.
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1 comment:
I tihnk we're all a litlte crzay anywya. :)
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