I turned Prozac Nation off after forty-five minutes. It was too close, too much. Elizabeth Wurtzel is, for all intents and purposes, my sister: a preternaturally talented and brilliant writer who abuses herself, is disappointed with sex and so has more sex, wishes desperately to be close to the mother who strangles, exponentially exacerbating
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"That's not to say all of life's problem's solutions come in a day, but there is ZERO attempt to do anything constructive."
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I think I am going to read the book. I hear it's a lot better.
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I'm sorry that everyone evidently finds Elizabeth Wurtzel a notch beneath George Bush on the morality scale; I sure fucking don't, and what I was saying was that I recognized her. In no fuckng way, shape or form was I insulting my sister, backhandedly or explicitly. If anything, I was trying to explain empathy with Wurtzel, which has humanized her.
One of the maddening things about depression is that one who has is doesn't know where it stops and character flaw begins: is everything too overwhelming and hard or are you just lazy?; is impulsive behavior comforting or do you just like junk food/getting drunk/etc? There's just behavior with unclear motives. So, do you blame everything on the depression, a clear cut case of malingering, or is everything the fault of your disease? I don't know where it starts in Wurtzel's case, and I'm willing to wager she doesn't, either.
And if anyone thinks that an honest character assessment equals character assassination, you can fuck right off.
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