I’ve never been skydiving.
The wrist altimeter reads 12,000 feet.
My friends say freedom begins after the divorce is final. In a way, they’re right.
Everything looks like little boxes from this height.
No anger. No sadness. Just peace.
She was my high school sweetheart. We were supposed to grow old together.
Now she has him. He has her. I have no one.
But if she found happiness then I can too.
Maybe she isn’t the one.
Maybe life goes on.
Too bad I refused to wear a parachute.
I am a doormat. At least that’s what I think when I see one.
Forget the fact that I look like a complete jackass, distracting our jet-lagged clients so they forget another fifteen minutes has passed while the Jackal is sucking down rum and cokes with an old college buddy. Incidents like these are always blamed on the secretary.
It’s more about property and ownership than a team effort here. Similar to people and their cell phones, I am nothing but an extension. I don’t assist the Jackal—he owns me. The complete lack of respect exists because I made one crucial mistake in my life. I was born a woman.
I used to walk around the local koi pond only wearing a silk robe. Any woman who met my gaze was promptly treated to my entire bare front. They would scream. I would giggle.
One day, a breathtaking brunette was about to cross my path.
“Pardon me,” I said. “What’s good for the goose…” My robe opened.
She lifted up her shirt before I could finish, exposing her breasts. “…is good for the gander.”
We married the following spring.
Then I remembered the dream I had in my small bed in my small Paris flat.
Alongside someone else, unidentified, I was looking across a broad verdant landscape when suddenly it began to sink behind the horizon until it disappeared.
I turned to the human by my side and said: “It’s over at last.”
- Harold Jaffe – Paris 60
“I bet you stopped smelling the paint thinner years ago,” said Derrick Convoy.
He was right, but I still wanted to knock his teeth out.
The server room had become the landing area for all unwanted junk. A gigantic metal five-tier shelving unit stretched across an entire twenty foot wall but only a fraction stored computer equipment. Half used paint cans, outdated tool catalogs, and a massive amount of paint thinner jugs occupied the rest—well, it used to occupy the rest.
Old computer monitors sat in piles of their own wreckage. Paint cans spilt their contents by my desk, imitating a vibrant mudslide. Derrick, who posed as a maintenance technician, had detached the shelving unit’s earthquake safety harnesses. One small push was all gravity needed. Now the only thing standing in the way of utter destruction are my quivering arms.
Most of what I really need
To know about how to live
And what to do and how to be
I learned from Tyler Durden.
Wisdom was not at the top
Of the corporate ladder,
But buried in the after work blood stains.
These are the things I learned:
Never be complete.
Don’t die without any scars.
Losing all hope is freedom.
My great war is a spiritual war.
I am not my fucking khakis.
Only after disaster can I be resurrected.
The things I own end up owning me.
Sticking feathers up my butt does not make me a chicken.
Never be content.
Even the Mona Lisa’s falling apart.
My life is ending one minute at a time.
Self-improvement is masturbation.
Recycling and speed limits are bullshit.
The lower I fall, the higher I will fly.
I am not a beautiful and unique snowflake.
It’s only after I’ve lost everything that I’m free to do anything.
Never be perfect.
George Orwell got it backward.
Big Brother isn’t watching. He’s singing and dancing. He’s pulling rabbits out of a hat. Big Brother’s busy holding your attention every moment you’re awake. He’s making sure you’re always distracted.
He’s making sure your imagination withers. Until it’s as useful as your appendix. He’s making sure your attention is always filled.
And this being fed is worse than being watched. With the world always filling you, no one has to worry about your mind. With everyone’s imagination atrophied, no one will ever be a threat to the world.
- Lullaby, Chuck Palahniuk