Sometimes fact is stranger than fiction. Nobody could have dreamed up Augusten Burroughs'''' bizarre childhood and adolescence.
His increasingly loony mother and standoffish father basically leave him to fend for himself until he is finally dispached at his mother''''s psychiatrist''''s house. Far from being a haven of sanity, the house is to the increasingly obsessive compulsive Burroughs, a stinking mess littered with doggy doo where it is normal for the adults to eat dog biscuits and the kids to play with an old electro shock therapy unit. The ''''psychiatrist'''' looks increasingly like an unkempt Santa Claus as he reads more and more meaning into the size and shape of his bowel movements (pointing up means good fortune, pointing down means bad news etc...) and retreats to his ''''masturbatorium'''' next to his office.
Ever the survivor, Burroughs adapts to the crazy household and builds a life for himself as his deranged mother flits in and out of sanity and lesbian relationships.
A thoroughly entertaining book where the truth may be exaggerated for a good story, but it is easy to see why the author battled with an alcohol addiction later in his life (chronicled in his book ''''Dry'''').
The film made of the book is worth watching, but the book is far better.