I'm only 27 pages in and am smitten with performer Storm Large's memoir Crazy Enough Two excerpts below are part of the reason why. You can also read some excerpts at Willamette Week. Plus the cover rocks!
First, her awesome disclaimer - I read a lot of memoirs and sometimes they offer up a straightforward one, and sometimes the writers get a bit more creative (Sara Benincasa also has a great one in her mental health memoir Agorafabulous!: Dispatches from My Bedroom). I added a silent "Fuck yeah" at the end of this one as I read.
All of these stories are true and as accurate as I could get them, with the help of friends and family who were party or privy to the events described. Several names and identifying characteristics of people and places have been blurred or outright changed to protect the innocent and the dead. Some have been changed to protect myself from the drug addled and psychotic, along with the general douche baggery that is so prevalent in these litigious times. Many of these memories are from more than thirty years ago, so keep in mind there have been a few tankers of alcohol and trash bags full of drugs, not to mention acres of weenie, that have been tossed through my body and brain since then, so I could have gotten a few things twisted around. But I do know for sure that I live at the end.
And then this passage, one which I, um, identify heavily.
Everything with me as a child--and later on--was either the mostexcitingwonderfulamazingyougottacomeseethisnow thing ever or else the sun would be going black, it was raining frogs, and the hooves of plague were thundering around me. Sometimes, I wondered if I was too sensitive to even be alive. I still feel that way now and then, like a turtle yanked raw and naked from its shell and tossed, torn open, and shrieking, into a sandstorm.