Running With Scissors

I’m in a bad mood because my Sunday was just ruined by an innumerable amount of factors. So I decided now would be a good time to blog about this book, because, well, it’s crap. And since I’m in a bad mood, I can really be out there about how I feel about it. Which is, it’s crap. Absolute trash. I have never “read” (listened to) such a waste of literary space. How are these people getting published? How? Why? WHY??!!

I listened to this book knowing that it was a true autobiography of some random author, and no matter how obscure the person, I enjoy reading other people’s stories. So let me just say this. If one word of this book is true, this Mr. Burroughs is one of the most depraved lunatics I’ve ever been in contact with. He was born by depraved lunatics and passed around to be raised by multiple depraved lunatics who encouraged his depraved lunatic lifestyle. This proves my long-held theory: idiots breed idiots. No good can come from stupidity procreating. They should be stopped in their perverse little tracks, and humanity should require licensure for reproducing.

Along with being a very sick freak (I’m so mad today I’m losing my ability to come up with any more creative adjectives, so I’m just going to be getting meaner instead of more clever), this author is also a very bad writer. Very bad. I spent the whole book wondering if there was something wrong with my CD ripper. It jumped from scene to scene and decade to decade seemingly in the middle of paragraphs. I spent the first half of the book thinking that I just wasn’t intellectual enough to appreciate the art form of non-chronological storytelling. Then when I heard “epilogue” at 3:41 of a 10:07 track (track number 31 of 45), I decided that this depraved lunatic was also an idiot. Awesome. I suppose it was a little too much for me to expect this goon who couldn’t figure out which orifice was designed for what to understand that epilogues go at the END of the book, and generally the easiest way to get from point A to point C was by way of B. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the flashback. But reinventing the alphabet just to make some artsy point isn’t really my thing.

So if you want to read this, go ahead. But it stunk. Terribly. And it’s ridiculously wrong. No dismembered babies or anything… just your every day run of the mill lack of any moral subjectivity whatsoever. You have been warned.

And just because I’m in a bad mood: Just so you know, if you ever tell me that you read this book (after reading this blog), I find you also sick and disgusting. There’s something wrong with you weirdos who seek out this crap. You should wash your mouths (and eyes and ears and probably other parts) out with soap.

Now everybody go away and leave me alone. I’m still in a bad mood.