During one of the Harry Potter midnight release parties prior to my freshman year at USF, this book caught my eye. Not the exact cover, but this book. The bold, red "BITCH" leaped out at me and demanded attention. Oh, did it ever get it.
I spent the rest of the night ignoring the rampaging children and bequeathing of the books. Elizabeth Wurtzel was my all-consuming literary crush; She still is.
While falling into my depressive spiral in Tampa, I remember obsessive reading of Wurtzel's catalogue, chain smoking clove cigarettes, constant tunes from The Who and Mudvayne, rampant drug use, unintended sexual conquests, and many solitary mornings reading at the art building. Of course, I wish things had gone differently, but those horrible, dark despairing moments were buffeted by the evocation and eloquence I felt reading this book. Grasping at her words like a drowning woman desperate for salvation.
Even going back, now that I'm back on the strait and {relatively} narrow, teaches me new things, or offers a different perspective than I previously had. The idea that any woman can be someone's idea of a bitch really resonates with me.
It would seem that I'm in good company.
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