Oh Dear me oh my I see that a bunch of DRAFTS without EDITING got published, WTF? OUCH!
or nostalgia that drives me to read memoirs and essays by forty somethings, about their salad days and youth, about the anonymous sex of the early 80's?
Is it memories or validation that makes me chose these books over and over...
Here I go again
as that Was not was song said is to well I LIKE IT. I am reading Everyone into the pool, by Beth Lipsick.
I am liking, not loving (this is not liar's club,)
but it her experiences are familiar, and amusing.
This gal is a little too high functioning for me to fall on my knees shouting
but a nice little laugh is nice, right?