This one, like the others by Burroughs that I've read, is hilarious!

Over the years, I have developed a number of unwritten rules for writing book reviews, on Goodreads and occasionally elsewhere. Well, call 'em guidelines, rather than rules, since I do violate them whenever I feel like it. Most of these guidelines boil down to one thing: I try to create the kinds of review I like to read. Specifically, I don't think it's enough for me just to say that I liked something; I want to analyze and convey why and how—and doing that usually takes more than a single paragraph.

That goal isn't going to be as easy for me to reach with Augusten Burroughs' tragically comical memoir, Magical Thinking. I blazed through this book in less than a day, under strict time pressure because I'd picked it off the shelf during a vacation at the marvelously literary Sylvia Beach Hotel (this is an entirely unsolicited recommendation, by the way). I couldn't bring the book home with me, so I didn't take my usual detailed notes... and it turns out that I'd already used the comparison I wanted to use this time anyway, back when I reviewed Possible Side Effects in 2015—that Burroughs' work brings to my mind the same sort of horrified hand-to-mouth laughter as the confessional intimacies of Jenny Lawson.

So don't let the generality and brevity of this review mislead you into thinking that I didn't like Magical Thinking, 'cause I really did. It's just that I can't give you chapter and verse about why, this time.

However, I was able to retrieve this memorable and representative paragraph via Google Books, from the chapter entitled "Vanderbilt Genes," in which Burroughs is brought to visit a mansion called The Breakers:

My first instinct was to inform the appalling tourists and my so-called parents that they must all leave immediately. I wanted to point back to the entrance and announce: "I'm sorry, people. But there has been a mistake. You must now leave my home and return to your busses. The rottweilers are being brought up from the wine cellar."
—p.18

If that sort of thing makes you laugh the way I did, then Magical Thinking will work for you as well. Somehow, I'm sure of it...

Very interesting. But I'm not very interested in confessional writing, or writing that's solely about one person's fucked-up life. I couldn't relate to very much of it.

This was a book that I wanted for superficial reasons: attractive cover, nice title, intriguing synopsis, dropping the words "hilarious, tragic, etc." I requested this book as a Christmas present and sight-unseen, my loving but slightly homophobic husband bought it for me. I kind of feel guilty about his handling such colorful subject matter!

Augusten Burroughs tells everything, balls-to-the-wall, as they say, in more ways than one.

This is a fun read of outrageous (true?) short stories. While an imperfect writer, Mr. Burroughs sure can capture the reader's attention and hold it. By the way, bring your sense of humor, or don't read this book.

I just couldn't finish this book. It's the 2nd book of Burroughs that I've tried to read. The first was Better Not Cry. I just can't get into his books. Another reviewer called him the poor man's David Sedaris. I agree.

If you think David Sedaris' stories are funny, then you'll really explode with laughter when you read this collection from Augesten Burroughs.

My favorite part of the book, and some of the most profound and prophetic writing ever:
"The truth is, Dennis has no bad qualities and no faults. When he's working late and I'm alone, or sometimes when we're in bed together, the lights off, I try to make even a small list in my mind of his faults: Things I Put Up With Out of Love. But I haven't been able to think of a single thing that I am not able to first overlook and then come to cherish. Even the fact that he sometimes loses things has led to a treasured nickname: Mittenclips.
Because sometimes he misplaces things: keys, his wallet, our car once. But his face, when he sees that he's done this--where are my keys?--it's the most crestfallen face, and I tell him, " Have you checked the pockets on that jacket you wore last night?" And I check the bathroom and the floor under the sofa and all the unlikely but possible places for lost things to be. And we always, always manage to find whatever was missing.
Unconditional love. That's what this is. I love him, as is, fully. I've had to stop arm wrestling with the facts. Why me? Didn't I already have a big love once? And lost it? So why should I get it again? I've had stop trying to look for cracks and flaws to prove that it's not as good a it seems. Because it's as good as it seems. Even when we fight we fight inside a container of good.
Somehow, through a flip of the coin, I ended up here. Feeling like somebody at the top of the heart-lung transplant recipient list. Damaged but invigorated and fucking lucky.

Recently, I got a came across a copy of Burroughs’ Possible Side Effects, checked it out on Goodreads as I often do before deciding what to read next, and in all honesty, I was scared off by the very strong, very mixed reaction (which isn’t like me) so I returned it to a Free Library. Then I came across this one a few weeks ago, grabbed it, and am kicking myself for returning the first one. I found this not just exceptionally funny, but because I didn’t find the stories offensive, really enjoyable over all as well. Burroughs is honest, insightful, direct, and a lot more raw (i.e., “honest”) than actually crude in telling these stories that chronicle his life at the time, often referencing his horrible childhood, and almost always referencing his neurosis and bad habits. There’s also a very nice sense of personal growth that underlines things as the book goes on, as pieces are basically chronological. He came across to me as a gay, gentile, equally funny, more relatable and more likeable version of Woody Allen – like maybe a cross between Paul Lynde and Albert Brooks - and sums himself up in one of the best lines I’ve read in a long time: “I like flaws and feel more comfortable around people who have them. I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.” I mean, if you know me, how can I not love that, or someone who is (also) “...one of those people who must wake up at least six times during the night to either pee or eat refrigerated M&Ms.”? I can’t wait to read his other collections. 92/100

This book was a thoughtless bookstore binge which started an Augustine Burroughs fixation. If only I could find one other person with my appreciation for his stories. Lots of gayness and naughty talk so beware. Also, so much laughter. Mom?

This was very clever. I don't know why exactly, but when I first started reading this, I didn't realize that it was a memoir, I thought it was going to be a work of fiction. So, initially I was a bit confused as to why there didn't seem to be any sort of logical progression of the stories, but the main character (the author I now know) seemed to keep appearing. Then about fifty pages in I realized it was a memoir and that put the stories into a better context for me. Burroughs is sharp and witty, and sometimes downright cruel, and maybe a little not right in the head (i.e., "The Rat Thing").

Hilarious and substantial

This is the book he should have named "Dry," since it's the most boring thing I've ever read.

The only reason why I finished it was because often times when I read essays or short stories, there are one or two stories that make me love the whole collection. Instead, all I found was more and more racism, ableism, sexism, and transphobia that really does not hold up well in the 16 years since this was published.

In the end, the only chapter that had a real conclusion was "The Mystery of Why This Sat on My Bookshelf Unread for Over Ten Years"