I don't trust anybody who hasn't been to hell, and David Darmstaedter got his passport stamped there early and often. That he survived his own life is remarkable enough, that he managed to turn the whole crawl over broken glass into the festival of pain, drugs, sex, madness, heart and - yes - genuine, soul-searing beauty that fills My Monster stands out as a miracle of a whole other order. In a world of faux-badass, Look-At-Me, I'm-Damaged! tomes of one-downsmanship and front, Darmstaedter stands as that most exotic of authors: the real goddamn thing. By the time you finish this book, you won't just want to tell you'll friends, you'll be ripping strangers out of their cars and shoving copies into their hands, screaming at them through foam-flecked lips to just shut up and read it. I really loved this book.