Dry- By Augusten Burroughs

I devoured this book. It was just shy of 300 pages, and I read it throughout the course of a day (plus 2 hours of night shift). I did get through it in that span because I had a lazy day off to kill. It was a Monday, and I worked two jobs that day. I also craved the life of Augusten Burroughs.

"When I was thirteen, my crazy mother gave me away to her lunatic psychiatrist, who adopted me. I then lived a life of squalor, pedophiles, no school and free pills. When I finally escaped, I presented myself to advertising agencies as a self-educated, slightly eccentric youth, filled with passion, bursting with ideas. I left out the fact that I didn't know how to spell or that I had been giving blow jobs since I was thirteen." - page 2 (By page two, I learned that Augusten Burroughs doesn't bullshit.)

Honestly, reading his relived memories made me feel neurotic. I put the book down for a breather, and realized my eyes were swimming with extremely detailed observations about the setting around me, which happened to be in my car on the freeway and I had no idea how I got there because last I remembered, I was sitting in bed reading. Adopting his perspective disconnected my dots. Not entirely unpleasant, but definitely weird. And addictive, which is the word of the day, while reading Dry. It took me about eight o'clock his time, six martinis in, to figure out he was an overt alcoholic, which is subsequently why it's called Dry.

Slouching in a chair six hours later, I suddenly become aware that I'm at work. I'm trying not to be painfully aware of a fistfull of observations all at once. Each blotchy, faded stain on this worn blue/black/brown/grey carpet looks like year-old puke that someone tried to wipe away after vomiting up; the chipper but screeching voice coming over the intercom scratches the inner membranes of my ears; behind the almost one-way glass window, every person who walks by looks like the same person on loop; the other person slouching in his chair behind the counter next to me hasn't said a word in the last four hours and I also don't think he's moved from the same elbow-on-thigh position; I also haven't spoken or moved in the same amount of time except for page turns; this book I'm reading is pretty intense; before I dive back into it.

I get like this. I get involved. My thoughts fall in sync with the person I'm reading. His neurosis fill my senses to the brim. I'm aware of my tendency to fall deeply in love with my narrator. Steadily and compulsively, I read on, absorbing the details of his shambled life, listening to his confessions as if I had been for years. Whenever I set him down, dog-eared, it's with a promise to return as soon as I can. Like he can trust me. Likewise, every page is scrolled over with precise, completely intimate and honest facts about his life, childhood, temptations, addictions, and anxiety. He's funny in the face of harsh realities, like HIV, alcoholism, rehab, and rock bottom. His laughter shines through the pain of life, always ever hopeful.