If you've read any of Elizabeth Wurtzel's work—particularly Prozac Nation, her grating, self-indulgent screed about wanting to stick her head in the oven whilst an undergraduate at Harvard—you are well acquainted with the author's tremendous suffering.
Now, writing for New York magazine's Intelligencer Wurtzel weighs in on the recent suicide of po-mo novelist David Foster Wallace. She knew him for a bit. And she hates to be all me-me-me about things, but this whole nasty business does remind her of her own terrible depression.