I'm more than halfway through this, and I find myself liking it and hating it at the same time. Like, it's really interesting and funny and horrifying, and I want to be reading it, but as I'm reading it I'm mad at it for being such a ripoff of David Sedaris. What, can only gay men with screwed up childhoods write memoirs now? And even though it is funny and interesting, I definitely don't think he's on the same level as Sedaris -- this book isn't nearly as funny or poignant. And like I said, it feels kind of copycat (the way he plays off his gayness is just SO SIMILAR), with the notable difference that Burroughs isn't nearly as likable as Sedaris. While Sedaris jokes but then seems to use his essays as a genuine, loving tribute to the (admittedly messed up) people in life, Burroughs just comes across as selfish and self-centered, at times mocking his family and friends pretty mercilessly (whereas Sedaris is much more likely to mock himself). I'll take self-deprecating over arrogant any day. But still, annoyingly, I am enjoying this book. The chapter with the doctor and the poop (don't want to give too much away) particularly cracked me up.

ETA: After finishing this, my opinion didn't change much. It was an easy read, and I enjoyed it, but I also kind of hated that I enjoyed it. I think the problem is that this book is pure fluff, but Burroughs tries to play it off as something deeper than that. It's not. The only emotion this book really engaged was anger at how stupid and crazy and self-centered all the people in it are. I took nothing away from it. Seriously, go read David Sedaris or Sarah Vowell instead.