By Jason Mulgrew
A memoir of startling perception, divine comedy, and irreversible, unconscionable stupidity enthusiasts of Jason Mulgrew's wildly well known weblog be aware of that every little thing quite is incorrect with him. The manufactured from a raucous, not-just-semi-but-fully-dysfunctional Philadelphia kin, Jason has obvious it all—from Little League video games of unspeakable horror to citywide parades finishing in stab wounds; from hard-partying longshoremen fathers to feathered-hair, no-nonsense, kindhearted moms; and from conscience-crippling Catholic dogmas to the both confounding faith of girls. With bankruptcy titles like "My chicken: Inadequacy and Redemption" (no, he's not bearing on a parakeet) and "On the connection among Genetics and Hustling," every thing is incorrect with Me proves that, as Jason places it, "writing is a fantastical workout in manic depression"—but he by no means fails to make sure that laughter is a part of the regimen. With echoes of Jean Shepherd transplanted to Philly within the eighties and nineties, this e-book is a must-read for everyone who appears again wistfully on his or her early life and relatives and wonders, "What have been we thinking?"
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Extra info for Everything Is Wrong with Me: A Memoir of an American Childhood Gone, Well, Wrong
When my mom brings it out from the closet, it’s already making its sound. The suit is made of a thick, cheap type of silk called bridal silk, and it makes a whoosh-whoosh when it moves, when fabric rubs against fabric. The suit itself is one long garment, a tie around the waist dividing the long-sleeved top with its frilly cuffs from the bottom, a loose skirt with frills at its hem. There are also bloomers—baggy pants with elastic ties that cling around the knee and the waist—to go under the skirt.
Four feet of water, a six-foot-two-inch human being. That math doesn’t exactly work out. But then again, my father didn’t know much about math, either, except that it was for nerds. Without a second thought, and to much less fanfare than he had hoped (what, no cheers? ), he stepped onto the bulkhead and dove off the pier into the shallow water below. I like to think that he looked like an angel as he fell, * descending gracefully toward the rich, dark waters of the bay, each ripple glistening in the sunlight on a beautiful summer afternoon.
No matter how much you sin, you can just “confess” these sins, do your penance, and get into Heaven. Yeah, I know—pretty awesome. I haven’t been to confession in a while, but when I do go again, it’ll sound something like: “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been, oh, fifteen years since my last confession and these are my sins. Actually, a question first. So I had this remote-controlled airplane, and, long story short, my neighbor died. I’d really rather not get into the details, for a number of reasons, but what’ll this cost me?
Everything Is Wrong with Me: A Memoir of an American Childhood Gone, Well, Wrong by Jason Mulgrew