Elizabeth Wurtzel, the bestselling author who gained notoriety with her confessional, first-person narratives about her depression, is now 45 and sadder than ever, which she has, once again, confessed in a first-person piece. She says her life is shitty because it doesn't have meaning. Or something? It's hard to tell, since the (very long) piece itself—which reads like a transcript of an eloquent coke rant or a Robin Williams free-association jag—doesn't seem to have much of a purpose either.
Earlier in her career, Wurtzel would use her words to create vivid, beautiful descriptions of the muted, horrible existence of clinical depression. Unfortunately now, when she pours her heart out onto the page she just makes a fucking mess. She's written several high-profile pieces in the past year that could be described as such. (See: the time, in a piece for The Atlantic, she blamed wealthy stay-at-home moms for killing feminism and the time, in a piece for Harper's Bazaar, she told young feminists they were ugly and should try harder to be pretty.)