Running With Scissors

Finished Augusten Burroughs' book 'Running with Scissors' about a week ago whilst on the flight back from Ireland. It's a really odd book about the author and his experiences in between something like the ages of ten and sixteen. He documents the oddities that have come into his life; the practices of his mother's psychologist's family with whom he is living. He reveals the eccentric nature of how his life has operated, how the people behave:
I will walk around and turn lights on and off, on and off. There is a panel of switches on the wall before the hall opens up into two huge, tall rooms. I will switch the spotlights on in the living room, illuminating the fireplace, the sofa. I will switch the light off and turn on the spotlights in the hallway; over the front of the door. I will run from the wall and stand in the spotlight. I will bathe in the light like a star and I will say, "Thank you for coming tonight to my poetry reading."
I will be wearing the dress my mother didn't wear. It is long, black and 100 percent polyester, my favorite because it flows. I will wear her dress and her shoes and I will be her.

The book is a fast read. It just tells you those aspects of life that seem relevant, sparing spurious detail about the places where events happen, just articulating enough to allow the reader a glimpse into the grime of the situation. When I started reading the book I didn't look a the author's name really, so it took me about five minutes to find out whether this person trying on their mother's dress was in fact male or female. Man, it made me laugh when I found out.
I think the main quality of the book is the way Burroughs manages to throw phrases out that catch you, to make one think 'ok, here we go again'...
The fact that the Christmas tree is still standing five months after Christmas is extremely disturbing to everyone in the house. But we all feel someone else should be the one to remove it. It is somebody else's responsibility. And in most everyone's mind, that somebody is Agnes.
But Agnes has refused to remove the tree. "I'm not your slave," she has screamed again and again. She will straighten her Virgin Mary candles on the sideboard, sweep the carpets, wash the occasional pot, but she will not touch this tree.