By Josh Kilmer-Purcell
I'm really not Myself nowadays follows a glittering trip via Manhattan's darkish underbelly -- a stunning and surreal international the place modify egos reign and subsist (barely) on darkish wit and chemicals...a tragic romantic comedy the place one starts by means of rooting for the survival of the connection and ends by means of hoping a person easily survives. Kilmer-Purcell is a terrifically proficient new literary voice who straddles the divide among absurdity and normalcy, and stitches them including superb humor and lonely poignancy. As Booklist raved "as tart and humorous as a Noel Coward play, for Kilmer-Purcell is principally sturdy at discussion, and, as in Coward's top performs, less than the comedy lies the unhappy fact that even at our greatest, we're all susceptible, fallible fools. many times during this wealthy, adventure-filled publication, Kilmer-Purcell illustrates the reality of Blake's proverb, 'The street of extra results in the palace of wisdom.'"
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Additional info for I Am Not Myself These Days: A Memoir (P.S.)
Sample text
As I turn to go to the kitchen, he leans over, reaching out to grab one of my ankles. I stop and he pulls me back toward him, causing me to hop backward on one foot, balancing the two mugs. When I’m near enough, he raises the sole of my foot to his mouth and softly kisses the very center of the arch. His lips are warm against my bare skin, and it tickles just enough to send goosebumps up my calves. “Thank you,” he says. By the time we head out to a matinee later that afternoon I’m feeling uncharacteristically relaxed.
Tempest had a different name every month or so. Soon after “Piddles” he became “Sarge,” then “Charm,” then “Grit”—each new name came with an appropriate story. One night, my group of friends and I were trapped inside our favorite club waiting out Hurricane Opal, which was raging outside. Crystal Cox, the emcee of the club’s drag show, was giving periodical weather reports from the stage. She’d just finished a joke about Opal having passed through Alabama, causing “forty-five million dollars’ worth of improvements” when the lights went out.
He wears a clean pair every night, he explained to me. Likes the newness. When I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, they still look perfectly pressed. I must not have turned at all in my sleep. Impossible as it seems, the living room appears brighter then the bedroom and I squint my eyes as I pull open the door. “Hello again,” Jack says, sitting cross-legged in the middle of a fan of Sunday New York Times sections scattered around him on the parquet floor. It’s only Saturday, but with home delivery, you get many of the fluffy Sunday sections—Real Estate, Arts and Leisure, the Times Magazine—a day early.