Journal of a Working Boy

Dear James Frey,

Thanks a lot for making me think that you are a hilarious, quick-thinking badass, strong enough to will your way through a most debilitating combination of addictions. Your book, "A Million Little Pieces," is a wonderful story. I enjoyed your honesty as you reflected upon your existence and took responsibility for your problems. I found your love story with Lilly to be thoughtful and sincere and your tendency to value friends' honesty and character to be noble and intelligent. I looked forward to the book every time I picked it up, despite the slight inaccuracies and fabrications that I believed had merely allowed the narrative to take its course. But when I read the The Smoking Gun's investigation, "A Million Little Lies," I pretty much became disgusted with you.

The story is so good that, for me, it would have worked as fiction. I guess when the publishers don't agree, then you have to make tough decisions regarding the manuscript. But I must say, Mr. James Frey, that it is rather despicable for you to have rehashed these tragic stories, some of which you had nothing at all to do with. Your police record is laughable, according to the investigation, and your ability to graduate from your expensive, private, liberal art college during the worst of your addictions is a most unsatisfying anecdote (I guess that's why we don't find it in the book).

The respect that I gained from your consciousness and brutal self-criticism is now an ill-tempered parasite, which constantly eats away at my heart. You disrespected grieving families, fabricated gruesome and depraving acts, and made yourself a hero to millions of individuals who suffer more from one addiction than you ever have with yours. You're a rich kid, a smart ass, a liar and a phony.

Have fun living in your million-dollar New York City condo you jerk.