The thing I love about my book club is the fact that it gets me out of my reading comfort zone. When you’re in a group with a dozen other people, there’s a very diverse pull for what books to read. Some I’ve been pleasantly surprised with, but sometimes you come up with a dud, like this month’s book.
Augusten Burroughs is a nonfiction writer who writes about his life in a very satirical way, much in the same writing style as David Sedaris. From what I gathered from our book discussion, this book is in the same vein as his other books. Burroughs wrote seven short stories about different Christmases he’s experienced over the years. Some parts are slightly humorous, like when he tricks his parents into buying all the presents on his list by demanding a horse or when his newly renovated house floods. But mostly it just made me depressed and feel sorry for him, like the Christmas he didn’t remember because he was blackout drunk or the last Christmas he spent with his AIDS-infected boyfriend.
What I really wanted to read was a hilariously funny set of Christmas stories, but instead what I got was story after story of hardships and confusion and struggles, like a tasteless cookie with some sprinkles on top to try and make it look better.
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