A memoir about a writer’s descent into Ritalin and cocaine addiction while working on the not-supposed-to-be-about-her follow up to her best-selling first memoir.
If I could dare to face my obsession with Elizabeth Wurtzel, author of Prozac Nation, I would still not go into therapy because any cure for Wurtzelmania would ruin my taste for things like “Real World: Reunited” and Lindsay Lohan gossip, and I’m just not ready to give up all of my guilty pleasures.
I can’t count how many times I’ve read Prozac Nation, and this is not my first time reading More, Now, Again, Wurtzel’s account of her tortured journey writing Bitch. Her rampant drug abuse turned what was meant to be an epic treatise into taboo-shattering women into a rambling mess that showed off the worst of Wurtzel’s narcissistic pseudo-intellectualism.
I think I’m obsessed with her because I think I hate her, but really I’m afraid that I’m just like her. Though perhaps not as midriff-baringly cute. Take this blog post, for example. It’s supposed to be a review of Wurtzel’s book, but it turns out it’s all about me! I write, therefore I Wurtzel.