Fight Club

This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time

I know this because Tyler knows this.

If I could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could I wake up as a different person?

This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time.

My French-Canadian grandmother was so modest that she never wore a swimming suit in public and she always ran water in the sink to mask any sound she might make in the bathroom

It’s easy to cry when you realize that everyone you love will reject you or die.

I tagged a first-timer one night at fight club. That Saturday night, a young guy with an angel’s face came to his first fight club, and I tagged him for a fight. That’s the rule. If it’s your first night in fight club, you have to fight. I knew that so I tagged him because the insomnia was on again, and I was in a mood to destroy something beautiful.

“I am trash,” Tyler said. “I am trash and shit and crazy to you and this whole fucking world,” Tyler said to the union president. “You don’t care where I live or how I feel, or what I eat or how I feed my kids or how I pay the doctor if I get sick, and yes I am stupid and bored and weak, but I am still your responsibility.”

Home was a condominium on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise, a sort of filing cabinet for widows and young professionals.

In the real world, I’m a recall campaign coordinator in a shirt and tie, sitting in the dark with a mouthful of blood and changing the overheads and slides as my boss tells Microsoft how he chose a particular shade of pale cornflower blue for an icon.