Matthew McConaughey’s autobiography is the most deranged thing I’ve ever read. But it inspired me to write my own.
Here are some highlights:
Yellowlights by Beau Montana
This isn’t an autobiography in its usual sense. I don’t remember much of anything. And I’m not talking about a few instances here and there. I mean NOTHING.
I grew up in a family that always told each other “you’re the biggest disappointment of my life.” And we meant it.
My mother held my head under the waters of the Ohio River and said “this is all part of God’s plan.” She was later arrested for possession of illegal methadone.
I’m not a victim.
When I was 27, my therapist shoved tennis balls up my ass and I shit green fuzz for weeks
I’m an eternal optimist.
When I was 43, my brother pulled down my pants at the bowling alley and everyone laughed at my little penis.
I’m not in denial.
Everyone gets to choose their own past. All it takes is a few weeks in the Mojave Desert surviving on wild mushrooms and peyote. It doesn’t hurt to be stupidly good looking either.
You need to get over your trauma.
If I whined and cried about having crippling alcoholism, diabetes, dyslexia, dementia, delirium tremens, and diphtheria, I would have never had the courage to apply to Harvard, Stanford, MIT, and the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater (then get rejected by all of them).
This book serves as my love letter…and suicide note…to life….
…AND to my love of black tar heroin.