damned-chuck palahniuk

“is this your first time at CBC?”

“no.”

“i thought so! i saw you at Cover Me Canada!”

yes, and the best part is that he recognized me because i was reading there, too. the debate at work has been whether or not it’s offensive to double date young dictators on a christmas card (young gaddafi and young stalin-google those hotties), so it’s fitting that i’ve finished this teenage angst novel from the point of view of a young woman in hell. it’s kind of cute that she’s so insecure and defensive over people’s perception that she doesn’t know the words she uses. are you there satan, it’s me madison is the best shoutout to are you there god, it’s me margaret that i have ever heard. yippee for the most fun i’ve had with palahniuk since snuff.

“Other girls might get a training bra at thirteen, but my mom offered to have me fitted for a training diaphragm. Beyond the birds and the bees-and tea-bagging, rimming, and scissoring-my parents never taught me a single thing about death. At most my dad pestered me to use moisturizer with sunblock and to floss my teeth. If they perceived death at all, it was only on the most superficial level, as the wrinkles and gray hairs of very old people fated soon to expire. Therefore they seemed heavily invested in the belief that if one could constantly maintain one’s personal appearance and mitigate the signs of aging, then death would never be a pressing issue. To my parents, death existed as merely the logical, albeit extreme, result of not adequately exfoliating your skin. A slippery slope. If one simply failed to practice meticulous grooming, one’s life would grind to an end.
And please, if you’re still in denial, eating low-sodium, heart-healthy skinless chicken breasts and feeling all self-righteous as you jog on a treadmill, don’t pretend you’re any more realistic than my loopy parents.” (89)

“My environmental parents chose a biodegradable casket of pressed-wood pulp guaranteed to rapidly break down and encourage bacterial subsoil life-forms. This is typical of how little respect you get once you’re dead. I mean, the well-being of earthworms gets a higher priority.
Consider that as proof positive that you’re never too young to record a final directive.
It was like being buried inside a pinata.” (165-6)

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One thought on “damned-chuck palahniuk

  1. post-twilight:

    “My being here, locked in a slimy cage, it would seem a forgone conclusion that God isn’t my biggest fan, and my parents, it now appears, are largely out of the picture, as are my favorite teachers, nutrition coaches, really all the authority figures I’ve tried to please for the past thirteen years. Therefore it’s not surprising that I’ve transferred all my immature needs for attention and affection to the only parental adult available: Satan.” (37)

    “I pictured Goran, the way blue veins branched under the transparent skin of his temples. How his hair grew so thick it wouldn’t comb down, the stand-up kind of hair you’d cultivate while studying Marxist philosophy over tiny cups of bitter espresso in smoke-filled coffeehouses, awaiting your perfect opportunity to lob a burning dynamite stick into the open touring car of some Austrian archduke and ignite a world war.” (62-3)

    “‘Death is a long process,’ Archer says. ‘Your body is just the first part of you that croaks.’ Meaning: Beyond that, your dreams have to die. Then your expectations. And your anger about investing a lifetime in learning shit and loving peeople and earning money, only to have all that crap come to basically nothing. Really, your physical body dying is the easy part. Beyond that, your memories must die. And your ego. Your pride and shame and ambition and hope, all that Personal Identity Crap can take centuries to expire.” (181)

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