I want a pile of powder meth, five hundred hits of acid, a garbage bag filled with mushrooms, a tube of glue bigger than a truck, a pool of gas large enough to drown in. I want crack, dirty and yellow and filled with formaldehyde. I want a bottle of the purest, strongest, most destructive, most poisonous alcohol on Earth. His stunned family checks him into a famed Minnesota drug treatment center where a doctor promises "he will be dead within a few days" if he starts to use again, and where Frey spends two agonizing months of detox confronting "The Fury" head on: The electrifying opening of James Frey's debut memoir, A Million Little Pieces, smash-cuts to the then 23-year-old author on a Chicago-bound plane "covered with a colorful mixture of spit, snot, urine, vomit and blood." Wanted by authorities in three states, without ID or any money, his face mangled and missing four front teeth, Frey is on a steep descent from a dark marathon of drug abuse. This is Frey’s acclaimed account of his six weeks in rehab. There he was told he could either stop using or die before he reached age 24. An alcoholic for ten years and a crack addict for three, he checked into a treatment facility shortly after landing. He had no idea where the plane was headed nor any recollection of the past two weeks. At the age of 23, James Frey woke up on a plane to find his front teeth knocked out and his nose broken.
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