There were at least 3 or 4 absolutely laugh out loud parts of this book. There is a very realistic hyper-absurdity to some of these stories. Unfortunately, it was impossible, for me anyway, to separate these brilliantly funny anecdotes from their autobiographical context. This, for me, did significantly reduce the overall enjoyment.

Each chapter is a story. There was more than one story where, in between schadenfreude inspired giggling, I had to pause for a moment and acknowledge the obvious question: “where are the parents in this anecdote?” One instance was made worse when the question was actually answered.

The chapters about animals were the easiest to disassociate, and thus, for me, easiest to enjoy.

The kinds of question that reflecting on this book inspired me to ask myself:

Is it okay to laugh at the misfortune of others?

Does the answer change if they have obvious signs of mental illness?

Does the answer change again if it’s autobiographical and intentionally written to be funny?

What about if it’s written about an animal cared for by the autobiographer with a very thinly veiled personification of their own mental illness?