Augusten Burroughs

My favorite author by far is Augusten Burroughs. In fact, his books are the only ones I've read in years. Truth be told, I've always defiantly prided myself on my lack of literary knowledge and delighted in telling anyone that would listen that I only read shopping magazines and department store sale signs. Book shelves are non-existent in my home, except for the prerequisite ones in my kid's room (reading is fundamental, after all). If you've read any of my other posts (which no one has) you would know this already. Book stores make me break out into a rash which can only be calmed by the magazine section.

Anyway, my friend Carolyn shattered my self-possessed, indignant sense of reality when she suggested I read his book "Magical Thinking". I was immediately appalled. She knows I don't read books and I've truly had no intention of ever starting. My lack of attention span and hatred for anything that makes me feel any emotions created by another's writing made book reading an impossibility, and now she was trying to pop the bubble I have so carefully kept myself in since school! After she calmed me down she explained that this particular book was short, hilarious stories of his life. She even went as far to say that it reminded her of my blog. Knowing flattery will get me to do just about anything, I agreed to borrow the book never intending to read it. I even left it on the passenger seat of my car thinking that I would return it after a reasonable amount of time had passed. Then it somehow sucked me in. It started innocently enough. While waiting for the school bus and the arrival of my demon spawn I cracked the book open. I figured I'd read a few pages and then return it, telling Carolyn I was far too self-involved to care about a stranger's life. As I read alone in my car, I found myself laughing out loud. Each day while waiting for the bus I read more, never bringing the book into my home, still trying to avoid getting sucked into this author's world.

Then it happened. I found myself laying in bed yearning to read more of his stories. The next thing I knew the book came into my home. When I finished it, I read his other books "Dry" and "Running With Scissors". Then I did the absolute, unthinkable. I paid money for his new book "Possible Side Effects". I've even visited his website. Now I find I'm basically his stalker, except I'm far too lazy to actually, physically stalk but rather passively stalk by subscribing to his website and waiting impatiently for him to write something new. He (and Carolyn) have deviously turned my world upside down.

The good news is I still love shopping magazines and hate book stores, preferring to shop discreetly on-line rather then being surrounded by actual tree-hugging, bookworms or my friends. The bad news is that if the bastard keeps writing I might actually have to get some book shelves which my mechanically defective husband will certainly take hours to put up. He's Jewish, which means he won't read the instructions and will hang them upside down and crooked first and put unnecessary holes in my pristine walls. Inconceivably, this writer has made it all worth it to me.