This is my story: For nine straight months I was addicted to chocolate sex crack-cocaine home-made crystal meth, which I sold to children and... and I once killed a party clown with a hammer.

Everyone seems to coming out with memoirs recounting a traumatic/fucked-up past. There's Augusten Burrough's Running with Scissors, James Frey's A Million Little Pieces and now Brad Land's Goat. I'm not really sure what the reader's meant to feel when they finish these books: Horror? Shock? Envy? All of the above? I think these books sell because they're so "out there" and wild. Who wants to read a boring memoir, really?

I remember the summer of the 13th year was a particularly memorable one: Old Man Jenkens at the end of Elm Street got a brand new riding mower. It was the first time I'd ever seen one and I was completely transfixed by the raw power it exuded.

Bor-ing. Now if you read something like:

When I was 13-years-old, a band of gypsies kidnapped me and made me their sex-slave for the entire summer. Eventually, I perfected a handjob technique known as "the basket", which I performed on my uncle as soon as I returned home. We were married for two months before I died of a heroin overdose.

You're going to want to buy that book, right?

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