I love shiny things, I love stars. Someday, I want to be a star, like my mother, like Maude.

The sliding doors to my closet are covered with mirror squares I bought with my allowance. The mirrors have veins of gold streaking through them. I stuck them to the doors myself.

I will aim my desk lamp into the center of the room and stand in its light, looking at myself in the mirror. "Hand me that box," I will say to my reflection. "Something isn't right here."

Excerpt from Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs. Copyright © 2002 by Augusten Burroughs. Published in 2003 by Picador, LLC. All rights reserved.