This book could have been really promising but I’m disappointed in it’s unbelievable lack of empathy and its sloppiness in regards to other’s feelings. To me, this comes across less like someone who wants to tell the world who they really are or as an apology to his victims, but as a trophy or to gloat about what he managed to do to others. As someone who is a victim, the way he speaks about his victims in this book is still with such a level of control and manipulation that I find it very difficult to believe he is truly sorry at all. In fact, reading his interactions with Pen felt like I was reliving my experience.
I bought this book mainly on a whim but also because I am a victim of the kind of emotional manipulation that he inflicted on the girls in this story. The author comes across, not as someone who once was a narcissist sociopath but as someone who still is.
He does this in past tense, but it also seems he still holds many of these opinions, including slut shaming women who swallow. He is clearly very self aware and yet still speaks very degradingly of women throughout this book. I would have appreciated this story a lot more, and would have perhaps really enjoyed it, if he had ever shown any growth. Although this can be forgiven as it’s an autobiography and probably the first publication from this author. The writing style is sloppy and disorganised and makes it very difficult to follow the story. Place it back where you found it - in fact, throw it - and calmly remove yourself from its vicinity before calling the nearest pest control exterminator.Īlthough I see the point of some of the other people in the comments, I have to agree with this article.
If at any point in the future you find yourself picking up this book, DO NOT open it. He then moves to Minnesota for two boring years (that to you will feel like two millennia) and falls in love, which leads to a sequence of ridiculous events that attempts to convey the story’s petty message but drastically fails at doing so. Here is what you get to look forward to after that stunning opening line: Our cheeky alcoholic Irish narrator explains, in acute detail, how he inflicts emotional abuse upon women, all the while subjecting you to his paranoiac delusions. “Diary of an Oxygen Thief” truly stays a piece of parasitic, brain-sucking compost for its entirety.
No, it does not get better, nor does it employ reverse psychology (as I did in deceiving you to read this article). The likewise anonymous narrator begins by stating, “I like hurting girls” - and if that is not enough to turn you away, I guarantee that one of the next 150 pages certainly will. “Diary of an Oxygen Thief,” self-reported as an autobiography, was published first in 2006 in the Netherlands by an anonymous author. With that disclaimer out of the way, I advise you to maneuver your mouse pointer to the upper left hand corner of the screen (or your finger, if you are on mobile), click that “back” arrow, and peruse some of the other fantastic articles you may find on our website. It is a sick, twisted, crass, lewd, whiny, disorganized, crude, impudent, and entirely inane piece of formless, noxious gelatin that you would probably burn, along with your shoe, if you had stepped in it. This novel isn’t worth a second of your time or an ounce of the credit you might give it for once being a “New York Times” bestseller. I am going to give you a chance to stop reading right now.
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