Ijustcouldn’tstopmyself。

Iknewthatafterthethirdorfourthpage,I’dfeelsickened,queasy。

Paranoideven。

Readingthedrugmemoirwouldmakemenotonlyfeelrotteninside,butI’dkeeplookingovermyshoulderasIhuffeddowneachpage,convincedthatstrangerswerewatchingme,judgingme,mockingme。

Theyprobablywere。

Anditwasn’tjusttheterribleuseofpresenttense。

ButIjustcouldn’tgetenough。

I’ddoneitbefore。

I’vemissedfirst-classflightstoEurope,andquitmyjobonawhim,andhadsexwithcabdriversandevenhungoutwithblackpeoplejusttoreadmore$350,000-advancememoirsaboutwhitepeoplesmokingcrack。

Ohsure,Ihad$70,000inthebankandagreat-lookingifone-dimensionally-portrayedboyfriendwhoreallycared。

Youwouldhavethoughtthere’dbeenoughcashandflexibilityinmylifetosupportmydrugmemoirproblemandstillletmetakepartinnormallife。

Butitwasn’ttrue。

IwaswillingtothrowitallawayjusttogetnakedinahotelroomattheNewarkairportandadmiremyselfshirtlesswhilereadingyetonemorememoiraboutTheJoysofThrowingItAllAwayInPursuitof?