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Description
Afterthoughts: Fight Club
Based on the novel by Chuck Palahniuk

It happened on a Monday. Sunday. No, it happened on a Monday. I placed my shoes in the designated area and threw my shirt to the ground. The truth is, I need it. The truth is, we all need it.
The first rule about fight club is you don't talk about fight club.
You're in the cemented basement of a rundown bar, waiting for the first punch to be thrown.
Being out isn't what you'd think it would be. It's not being released from something and into something else; it's being released from something and captured by something else. Society. And then there is always fight club.
Being alive without a job is like being married without kids. It's all the stuff you wanna do and no changing any shitty diapers. It's forgetting there's gotta be someone who depends on you sooner or later. Like Marla.
Tyler Durden is dead, that I am sure of. Tyler says that Hell is just fine. Tyler says he likes it better there. He doesn't want to come back. Project Mayhem was just the beginning. This is eternal.
She undressed quickly before jumping on me. I only saw it out of the corner of my eye that we did it. Marla says to pull her hair. I try not to hurt her, so I pull as hard as I can. This is better than real life. A microscope would show that I'm not faking my smile this time.
You're in Flagstaff, Arizona.
The first time I read the sign I laugh. You would too. Beaver Street Brewery. The first fight club for both genders happens here. Ironic. With a new sex come new rules.
The eighth rule about fight club is you can't fight with the opposite sex.
In my head I'm still laughing. The punch hits me square in the stomach. I lash out and twist his arm behind his back. Hello. Nice to meet you. I'm so and so. That's what I want to say. He spins out of it and the rest blurs into Wednesday when I'm actually smiling in bed.
She doesn't know what's best for her. Neither do I. After our second session of therapeutic physical contact, she stands up and looks out the window of our tiny apartment to see the beautiful blah blah blah. And doesn't that tree look like so and so. Yeah. Sure. And we should really do something about that leak. Okay. And have I heard that it's bad to leave food in the trash for too long. No. I mean yes.
Kachina Village is about 10 miles south of Flagstaff. That's an eternity in bus time. We got a motorcycle to make the ride. She sits in the bitch seat. Those checks keep coming in the mail so we don't worry.
I run fight club full time now. Except for on Wednesdays and Fridays when I don't. Marla went once. She put up a good fight, and she only went once. I'm starting to see my parents.
I miss God sometimes. He used to make me feel so much better.
Now there is only fight club. It makes me feel better. Maybe that's its way of being God.

Description
Afterthoughts: Fight Club
Based on the novel by Chuck Palahniuk

It happened on a Monday. Sunday. No, it happened on a Monday. I placed my shoes in the designated area and threw my shirt to the ground. The truth is, I need it. The truth is, we all need it.
The first rule about fight club is you don't talk about fight club.
You're in the cemented basement of a rundown bar, waiting for the first punch to be thrown.
Being out isn't what you'd think it would be. It's not being released from something and into something else; it's being released from something and captured by something else. Society. And then there is always fight club.
Being alive without a job is like being married without kids. It's all the stuff you wanna do and no changing any shitty diapers. It's forgetting there's gotta be someone who depends on you sooner or later. Like Marla.
Tyler Durden is dead, that I am sure of. Tyler says that Hell is just fine. Tyler says he likes it better there. He doesn't want to come back. Project Mayhem was just the beginning. This is eternal.
She undressed quickly before jumping on me. I only saw it out of the corner of my eye that we did it. Marla says to pull her hair. I try not to hurt her, so I pull as hard as I can. This is better than real life. A microscope would show that I'm not faking my smile this time.
You're in Flagstaff, Arizona.
The first time I read the sign I laugh. You would too. Beaver Street Brewery. The first fight club for both genders happens here. Ironic. With a new sex come new rules.
The eighth rule about fight club is you can't fight with the opposite sex.
In my head I'm still laughing. The punch hits me square in the stomach. I lash out and twist his arm behind his back. Hello. Nice to meet you. I'm so and so. That's what I want to say. He spins out of it and the rest blurs into Wednesday when I'm actually smiling in bed.
She doesn't know what's best for her. Neither do I. After our second session of therapeutic physical contact, she stands up and looks out the window of our tiny apartment to see the beautiful blah blah blah. And doesn't that tree look like so and so. Yeah. Sure. And we should really do something about that leak. Okay. And have I heard that it's bad to leave food in the trash for too long. No. I mean yes.
Kachina Village is about 10 miles south of Flagstaff. That's an eternity in bus time. We got a motorcycle to make the ride. She sits in the bitch seat. Those checks keep coming in the mail so we don't worry.
I run fight club full time now. Except for on Wednesdays and Fridays when I don't. Marla went once. She put up a good fight, and she only went once. I'm starting to see my parents.
I miss God sometimes. He used to make me feel so much better.
Now there is only fight club. It makes me feel better. Maybe that's its way of being God.