Readin'

Since I haven't been able to type or play computer games much I've had to resort to other recreational pursuits. I'm not much of a TV lover (although the new Denise Richardson show looks promising for trashy entertainment; that girl has a worse trash mouth than I do and it is NOT attractive) so I have mostly been reading. A lot.

I already wrote about Augusten's new book--naturally it rocked. Since then I have read the following:

Madness: A Bipolar Life by Marya Hornbacher. It was good but depressing and freaky. If you want to feel normal, read this book. Just reading it is exhausting; I can't imagine having to live it. This book could serve as a FIO DSM: if you relate to this girl and/or have experienced what she has, you're crazy; if not, you're fine. Ok--sorry--I know "crazy" is not the PC term, but since I am supposedly crazy myself I'm allowed to call it that. And I'm telling you--I am 1000% less crazy than this poor woman.

Split by Suzanne Finnamore. I read this book because Augusten recommends it; I think she's a good friend of his. Lucky cow. Anyway, while I did like it and ultimately think she's a good writer, it took a long time to warm to her style. It could have something to do with the fact that I cannot relate to women who know their husbands are cheating yet choose to live in denial and want him anyway. Her story is that one day her husband just announces he's leaving and she is devastated and desperately wants him back, even when we learn, though a series of flashbacks spanning as far back as the beginning of their relationship, that he was a serial cheater.

She describes finding a book of poetry--with a romantic inscription and "xoxo Me"--in their house and it's sure not hers. She finds a cocktail napkin with some romantic song lyrics written on it in her husband's handwriting, complete with some other woman's name written in the margins or something; not only does she find it but she finds it on the floor of the nursery when she is 8 months pregnant.

Then of course there's the blatantly obvious: he has left her for another woman who he moves in with and proceeds to have a baby with. Throughout the whole thing Finnamore just swoons about how much she loves him; she repeatedly sleeps with him and, right up till the very last paragraph, seems to revel in the fact that he still likes to be with her or spend time with her or sleep with her when the fancy strikes him. She lovingly describes how he will just show up unannounced and help himself to her food, her furniture--even her mail. The guy turns my stomach--he leaves her for this other woman, then is cheating on the other woman with her. All the while she's painting him in this romantic light; how what they had was so beautiful and special and he obviously can't live without her. Meanwhile, it's blaringly apparent that the guy is a sociopath who does what he wants, when he wants, with who he wants and doesn't give it a second thought. Scott Peterson was very charming and sincere, too--and look how that turned out.

I don't mean to cut on Augusten's friend, but I just don't understand how she can stand to look at this guy, much less continue to mourn losing him and want him back. The book is good, but I say that very reluctantly because the whole thing was almost ruined by her ridiculous longing for her dick of an ex-husband.

Ok, well my pinkie is totally numb now so that will have to suffice; I'll fill you in on the other books I've read when I regain the feeling in my finger.