By: Augusten BurroughsThat this book has been widely compared to David Sedaris is understandable, but only on the very surface. Both authors are gay, and both authors write quirky and humorous memoirs about their dysfunctional families. Ok. If the dysfunction in Sedaris' family could be described as an irritating rash, the dysfunction in Burroughs' would be the slightly more irritating affliction of leprosy.
Which is why, as the devastation that is Burroughs' life unfolds, the comparison rings so false. After spending a few hundred pages with Sedaris, you're comfortable in the knowledge that what ever sets you and/or your family apart, you're not alone. After spending a few hundred pages with Burroughs, you're left wondering how its possible for people like those he grew up with to have actually existed, and how he retains any kind of humor about his situation.
His situation just goes from bad to worse. His mother goes crazy, he goes to live with a crazier family, he gets raped, his mother gets raped, his closest friend prostitutes herself, and anyone who reaches out a helping hand to him ends up, well, not exactly helping.
Its a strange kind of book, I don't know exactly if I've ever read anything so tragic that was dealt with so humorously before. As a result, I feel glad that
Burroughs' made it out alive, much less with the ability to laugh (and make others laugh) about it, but at the same time, theres something very discomforting about turning the story into a comedy.
In conclusion; funny like leprosy, a little uncomfortable, not like Sedaris.
