It's an odd thing, watching a memoirist grow up on the page.
Most writers (and we're talking about a specific subset of writers here — those afflicted by the autobiographical blabbermouth disease) have one in them. They reach an age, glance back over their shoulders and see a book waiting there. For most mortals, 300-some pages is enough to contain all the tales of childhood weirdness, drinks and drugs, failed love affairs and the slow, lumbering trudge into age and wisdom. Some fantastic messes or geniuses have two.
And then there's Augusten Burroughs.