One can only hope that this unpromising beginning is the start of a true story that ends with great redemption. The narrative voice of this book details the confessions of a deeply flawed individual-in her twenties-who still seems to think it is somehow cool to possess more heroin than she can actually carry.

The only reason Holden Caulfield can get away with two-hundred pages of self-involved privileged whining about unfairness in the world is because of that divergence between fiction and fact. The divergence between novel and autobiography has grown increasingly narrower over the course of the last fifty years to the point that some authors join their readers in believing there is no significance difference. It is one thing to read about fictional people who don’t really exist whining about problems that are of their own making but when a reader opens a work of non-fiction and is instantly greeted by this tone-deaf demonstration of the expectations of privilege, the whole mood instantly sours. This would be a terrific opening line for a novel, but for a memoir-assumed to be an authentic recounting of an actual life in non-fiction format-this opening is painfully problematic. I have problems: I am out of clean clothes, I cannot find my glasses, my English paper is late, and my pockets are not big enough for all the heroin I have.īut, honestly, more than anything, I want a cigarette.

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Corrections in ink book