Am I The Only One Who Thinks Like This?

Augusten Burroughs

Augusten Burroughs is an author of several books, mostly memoirs, based on his strange and dysfunctional life. His mother was a lunatic, who gave him away to her psychiatrist, also a lunatic, where he was surrounded by older homosexual men, and taken out of school. He's battled alcoholism, and other emotional problems, but now lives a healthy sober life in New York City.

His sarcastic and morbid sense of humor is very prominent in his writing. His writing style is descriptive and detailed, and when reading his books, I feel like I was there, experiencing every bit of strangeness that he was. I feel his emotion and his confusion, and sometimes his books make me cry. I get attached to the characters (the different friends and boyfriends that he's had in his life), and his writing gives me the feeling that I know him personally.


Exceprt from Dry:

 The next day, I go to the gym. It's been over a month since I've worked out, and I'm depressed to see that instead of bening able to do curls with the forty-five pound weigths, I struggle with the twenties. This shouldn't matter to me. I'm not drinking is what should matter. but the fact that I've deflated depresses me and makes me want to drink. I gained one thing and lost another. Just shut the hell up, I tell myself, Get your priorities straight.
While I'm doing tricep kickbacks, my face ready to burst capillaries, a handsome guy doing squats smiles at me. Nods his head. I immediately look away, feeling very much damaged goods. Because even though I'm in public like a normal person now, I'm still removed from society. I imagine how our coffee conversation would go.
Squat man: So, tell me about yourself.
Me: Well, I just got out of rehab. And went to the first of the AA meetings I will have to attend for the rest of my life.
Squat man: Hey, that's great, man. Good for you. Listen dude, I gotta run. Nice talkin' with ya. Good luck. Ciao.
Like cubic zirconia, I only look real. I'm an imposter. The fact is, I'm not like other people. I'm like other alcoholics. Mr. Squat can probably go out, have a couple drinks, and then go home. He might even have to be talked into a third drink on a Friday night. Then, on Saturday morning, he might have a slight hangover. I, on the other hand, would have to be talked out of a thirteenth drink on a Monday. And I wouldn't wake up with a hangover. Just a certain thickness that only after rehab, only after waking up without this thickness, did I realize was a hangover. A comfortable hangover, like a pair of faded jeans or a favorite sweater with too many fur balls on it.
I go down to the locker room. In the shower, I think about how I'm a drunk that doesn't get to drink. It seems unfair. Like keeping a Chihuahua in a hamster cage.