Sure, I'll Join Your Cult: A Memoir of Mental Illness and the Quest to Belong Anywhere

by Maria Bamford

I focus on whatever confirms that I should be crying and that it’s really best if I’m obliterated.

LET ME KNOW if you don’t think it’s enough, feel angry that I am doing it improperly, are generally disappointed in me, or think that I should be ashamed of myself and why at ariamaamfordba@gmail.com or at the very least “@” me on social media with a diss. Tag me with something damningly astute that I will repost before I try to make friends with you in your DMs, asking you what YOU think I should do with the money. And then, when you refuse, I will mute you so I don’t have to be reminded of our falling-out. You are right, internet, you are always right. It would be an honor to learn something and I am being sincere. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH.

and once he said (out loud, while staring into my eyes) in a romantic setting, “I would never hit you.”

People start coming to shows expecting the Target lady and are surprised to hear my elaborate word salads about depression.

But if I or anyone else dies of suicide because of whatevs haunted house is in their head, I just want to celebrate that I or you or anyone else was out there crushing and grinding for as long as we could.