Lit, A Memoir by Mary Karr (27)

Lit is the third of poet Mary Karr's not-so-poetic memoirs. I was immediately repulsed by the phrase "knobby head" in the foreword dedicating the memoir to her son. I took a few days' break and returned to the book. I'm glad I let it (and myself, really) mellow.

The foreword may be filled with sentimental landmines of motherly love and devotion, but the memoir is honest, funny, self-deprecating and fair to all those involved. I loved that Karr often included caveats about remembering mean things her husband said because they were uncharacteristic, or that she was selfish in her addiction or irrational when pregnant. She didn't use her story to absolve or explain herself. She just told it. And for a reader with a practically anti-addictive personality, it gave me a true picture of an alcoholic's life.


It looks a lot more like my life than I would have guessed.

Cloves & Insecurity

Now I only use cloves to flavor my french pressed coffee. In college I used to smoke clove cigarettes, before moving on to Parliaments, before my tiny bank account prompted a choice between caffeine addiction and the classic cool prop. One drug over another, I suppose.

A friend introduced me to Djarum, as well as other substances and experiences that year, and I liked the cigarettes immediately. The spicy aroma, the tang on my lips, the pretense of busyness. Cloves released me from my common female insecurity. Walking alone on the city streets, I could hide behind the smoke. Waiting for my boyfriend to get out of class, I could fake confidence among the strange and better dressed girls at his school. If I wanted an excuse to leave my dorm, I could go smoke on the fire escape and brood. There was never an empty moment with a pack of Specials in my purse.

I'm glad I don't need that crutch anymore. I just found out about the ban on cloves and flavored smokes last year.

And this just as various states are reconsidering the legality of marijuana.

Reality Bites

There isn't enough distraction to keep my introspection at bay for long. I can watch 5 hours of Grey's Anatomy, go out for sushi with my husband and my father, chill at bars, bridal showers, parties with my old House... but when I sit here at my desk with a saw of some kind whirring incessantly behind me and the rain pattering on the skylight, I can't stop myself from thinking.

I've always loved watching TV, but I don't think I've ever used it to distract myself from reality before. As a child I used it as an excuse to stay up later, as all kids do. In high school I used it to procrastinate, as all teenagers do. In college, it contributed to my sleep deprivation, as is the case for most college students. As an adult, I use it to distract myself from my frustrating occupation and pacify my growing discontent. As most adults do, perhaps?

Unhappiness keeps me from doing the things that make me happy. What a defeating cycle.

I'm not entirely unhappy. I've had a lot of great days, and I'm constantly thankful for Mr. Fuji and his amazingness. I spend 11 hours, 5 days a week, unhappy. But I am hopeful. I don't think I should publicly broadcast why just yet (since I can't remember if this blog is private or not). I may just be posting about it soon. I hope.