I just finished Running with Scissors, which is a very funny, but never poignant book about this little boy's life at the home of his mother's psychiatrist. His mother, who can't seem to care for him, has little Augusten adopted into the home of her shrink, Dr. Finch. At this house, where roaches cover the kitchen and crazy patients live upstairs, it is not uncommon for an infant to run around peeing on everything, or for the hunch-backed matriarch to snack on Kibble.
Running with Scissors is hysterically funny, but not that well-written, I must confess. I own its sequel, Dry., so I'm going to start to read that fairly soon (Jai and I have to trade).
In other news, I actually love it when people call me. I know I'm horrible about calling people, but it's so nice to hear affection on the other end of the line. I got a few of these calls today, and I think I needed them all.
Reason number #86 why I hate old people. They don't give a fuck: just like teenagers. I was reading my book today at the local Baja Fresh Mexican Grill when an overweight sixty-year-old belched at a restaurant-arresting level. This burp was no joke. This was a release of air meant to awaken the entire eatery. My first thought was "How rude!" but that thought immediately faded when I looked at the man. More accurately, I whipped my head around in astonishment to glare at this fiend in my vicinity. This man showed no signs of having done anything at all inappropriate. Instead, he pushed back his tray, got up, and waddled toward the fountain drinks.
The elderly must be stopped!
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