I’ve made a decision to read other people’s reviews of biographies and autobiographies in future, even all non-fiction really. It is grating to hear someone get opinionated about something they know nothing about and autobiographies can often be gratuitous attempts to resurrect dying careers.

Yes, yes, I’m still smarting from James “Britney’s Biographer” Blandfords attempts to chronicle a goddess and pretend he even knew what Doc Martens and Chelsea boots were.

Moving on.

The point is, had I actually adopted this credo before picking up Scar Tissue by Anthony Kiedis, I’d have seen all the warnings. Reading comments such as “un-put-downable”, “found myself at 2am still reading it” and “couldn’t stop reading it” may just have given me an idea that this was a book to avoid. At all costs.

Tongue-in-cheek aside, this book is awesome and hopefully I’ll finish it in a day or so. The suspense in racing to the end, which is obviously the present, is almost killing me. I say almost, because I can’t die until I’ve finished this book.