We've spent an unhealthy amount of time alone lately, quietly mulling over the implications of the synchronized scandals of James Frey, who falsified key details in his Oprah-sanctioned rehab memoir A Million Little Pieces, and JT LeRoy, who falsified a tragic past and a case of AIDS when, in fact, he doesn't really exist. We've pored over our old texts of literary theory and given much thought to existential issues of criticism, but we're still not sure how to feel about this whole stupid mess. Help us, won't you?

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