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Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher
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Aug 06, 2011

liked it
bookshelves: memoirs, gave-away
Read in August, 2011

Carrie Fisher is cray cray. And I'm allowed to call her crazy because 1) she admits she is crazy and 2) I am also crazy. It's like how bald men can tell bald men jokes, or handicapped people reserve the right to lol about disability issues but it's no-go territory if your able-bodied. Fisher is a tad unhinged but lucid enough to be able to string together an erractic bunch of tales; stories about her mother Debbie Reynolds (whom she is besotted with), her absent father, Cary Grant and various other famous folk.

With a flair for self-depreciating humour, she talks about being bipolar and an addict and with a hint of bitterness, her time as Princess Leia - whom admittedly probably aroused a little bit of gay in me when I watched the films as a kid. She was such a bitch! So broodingly, ferociously sexy. In a way that only mentally ill women can be. It's people like Carrie Fisher that make me more comfortable being a little insane (but also a little worried about how I am perceived by others). Sometimes it seemed as if Carrie was lost in a world of her own, her book sometimes took up more of a stream-of-consciousness, lost in reverie style. Most of the book it read as if she were writing a gossipy letter to a friend.

And I dig that. I can tell you, finding out that it was Harrison Ford's weed that made her quit smoking weed made my day. I was a heavy pot smoker for about the same time as Carrie; about six or so years and one day it also went all bad for me. I wish that I could blame Harrison Ford for it but unfortunately I think it was the fault of a weedy meth-addicted, jumpy lad that did something ungodly to the weed with chemicals and opium. But then Fisher got addicted to acid. How one can get hooked on acid is beyond me. I swear the few acid trips that I had are the reason why I still have to take pills to sleep otherwise I sit there, bolt upright in bed, prodding my partner awake with thoughts such as Have you ever thought that our bodies are just like a vehicle for our consciousness? Have you ever really considered a face before? It's like a platter of orifices. And so on. Acid is vile.

Opioids however, sigh, I don't allow myself to take them because I know I'd get hooked. So, I guess I understand a lot about Carrie Fisher. She also exhibits Chronic Bitchface Syndrome; which I too, am a sufferer.

So, now that I've shared with you some of my own personal drug history; which really isn't socially acceptable or even that interesting unless you're a recovered drug fiend like me; I can tell you that the book is a quick read. It's erractic and Fisher flits from memory to thought to memory to thought with the instability you'd expect of someone with bipolar whom has also a history of heavy acid use. Whom has also had ECT. Sometimes I thought she might've been trying too hard to be funny; but then sometimes bitter and twisted depressives just seem that way. I should know. I'm guilty of the same thing. I honestly don't try to be hilarious, it just pours out of me like diarrhea.

I loved it because I fucking love Star Wars. Harrison Ford could shit out an autobiography and I'd lap it up. Mark Hamilton, well, it all went wrong for him after that car crash didn't it. What the fuck was with his plastic surgeon? But anyway, if you're a Star Wars fan and even slightly curious about the surly babe in that wicked bikini that was attached to Jabba the Hutt; you can't really go wrong picking this up. Star Wars is mentioned briefly but for long enough to satiate a tiny bit of my curiosity and all the mental health and drug stuff along with some bits about famous people is just icing on the cake.
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