Guts: The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster
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The New York Times bestseller—a harrowing and hysterical memoir by the two-time Emmy Award-winning actress from the hit television show 3rd Rock from the Sun.
“It felt like I was speeding on the Autobahn toward hell, trapped inside a DeLorean with no brakes. And even if I could somehow stop, I’d still be screwed, because there’s no way I’d ever be able to figure out how to open those insane, cocaine-designed doors.”
Actress Kristen Johnston has written her first book, a surprisingly raw and triumphant memoir that is outrageous, moving, sweet, tragic, and heartbreakingly honest. Guts is a true achievement—a memoir that manages to be as frank and revealing as Augusten Burroughs, yet as hilarious and witty as David Sedaris. Johnston takes us on a journey so truthful and relatable, so remarkably fresh, it promises to stay with you for a long, long time.
anything, to get a new label. Really. Oh, come on, go ahead. Toss one at me! After Amy, I can take just about anything. Or who knows? Maybe, just maybe, I’m finally becoming that “tough broad” I always pretended I was. Therefore, without further ado, I proudly present to you my thighs, in all their vast and bumpy glory. four YE OLDE ELVIS CATNAP my life changed forever in London on December 4, 2006. I was thirty-nine years old. I was doing a play called Love Song by John Kolvenbach on the
ran off to find one, I glanced up and saw my face in the mirror. I looked white. I tried to warm up my voice or say one of my lines, but I could barely draw breath to speak, let alone project to an enormous theater. This was my first inkling that maybe, just maybe, the doctors had been right, and I had made a terrible mistake. No, that’s ridiculous! You’ll be fine once the adrenaline hits. You absolutely made the right decision. Thinking back on it now, I concede that I was one fucked-up bunny.
taken by Kathy Najimy circa 2000, at her husband Dan’s birthday party. What can I say, I was hammered. “Blink” photograph, taken by my father, probably circa 1967. “I Think We’re Alone Now” photograph, photographer unknown. Late nineties. Taken at a Human Rights Campaign Concert. I introduced k.d. Lang, which I was so excited about. She, however, was less thrilled to meet me. Sometimes I can come off like a giant, overfriendly golden retriever. “The Suffolk Strangler” photograph, taken circa
scoliosis back brace and had a lisp. So she pronounced it “prothethon.” We ate lunch together every day. Not by choice.) I’m sure Sister Anita must have found Tharah Thmith to be as irritating as the rest of us, but because she was having a passionate love affair with Jesus, she instead replied, “Well, isn’t that a wonderful question, Sarah! You’ll be entering the church according to height. Shortest first, meaning the girls, of course! And then finishing with the tallest, you boys.” Uh-oh.
professionally blown out every morning); alabaster skin; long legs; and, at an outrageously young age, proudly displayed a set of real, honest-to-goodness boobs (not the Kleenex-in-the-bra boobs like the rest of us). It didn’t matter what sex you were, you could simply not refrain from openly soaking in her Amy-ness. She only had two minor drawbacks. She was dumb as a box of hammers and mean as a snake. It was Amy who first anointed me “the Jolly Green Giant,” which is not all that much better