That’s not to say I’ve not been around it. After growing up “Clairemont” and spending my 20s trotting out with an assemblage of professional skaters, a notable band and a heaping handful of sick and twisted animators and artists, I rather thought myself an expert as to what drugs are all about.
That was until I read James Frey’s supposedly autobiographical A Million Little Pieces, and the difference between user and abuser was made abundantly clear.
Of course, come to find out, big hunks of this book were fabricated. Which is something a slimebag, money-hungry author would do - upping the drama to up sales. But why is this a surprise? He's a drug addict and felon, people!
If only he'd done the "based on my life" and not actually posited it as an autobiography. Then I wouldn't feel like such a dupe for reading (and believing) this book.
I won't be pulling that kind of crap, here. I hereby pledge that you will be awed by the monotony of my drug-free existence all on its own merit.