I got this wild writing idea, called Adopt a Spacemonkey. I know Tyler Durden's spirit lives well on this website so I thought a bunch of us writers could write a fictitous autobiography for someone that joined Project Mayhem. If we put them together it would be pretty cool to see the variations I'm sure will come out of everyone's different minds but ultimately leads to the same place. Any interest?
Wait wait, so, are you talking about the same writers who wrote stories/poems/etc. on the other thread you started?
I'm down. How far back should the bio start? Before joining ProjMayhem? after?
GOt some cool ideas.
I was thinking of something explaining how they got into Project Mayhem, what drove them to join such a radical organization. Almost like a pre-quel to Fight Club that may help in the understanding of its philosophy. Open to all who wish to participate.
Just for clarification, is this supposed to be based off the book or the movie? If the end result would be the same, then you must forgive my ignorance as I've not read the book.
This sounds kind of fun, in a real nerdy way.
They are essentially the same, barring a few minor details. If you want to read the book it can be read in a night or two.
The movie was actualy a realy good redition of the book.
My story is in the works. SHould be done in about a week.
I figured I'd breathe a little life into this thread again. Mine's going to be a little lengthy, moreso than I had originally thought. It'll be finished...eventually.
Mine is complete. I will post it soon.
Suicide was simply my natural progression of though, not a radical leap on the self-destructive, self-abhorring path, contrary to what the daytime TV self-help preachers, espousers of SparkNote versions of wisdom, would deceive you into believing. Those who knew me told me I had too much free time on my hands, as if the exercising of free will, the fundamental value of America, world superpower, were lethal bacteria. A bacteria waiting to malignantly slip into an open wound, a wound on the verge of infection that would be my demise as bacteria streamed in using idle time, time devoid of responsibility, as its avenue. Based on that reasoning, responsibility is the primordial binding agent of society, what cements the mosaic into something coherent, defying the natural inclination of the pieces to fall into an archaic jumble. I realized this but also believed that responsibility bit sucks and I wish no part of it; it makes me do shit I simply don?t want to do, stripping away my freedom and stifling me into a life governed by someone else?s desires, a life ripe with boredom.
Believing that my happiness and the demands of society were mutually exclusive separating my soul from my body, suicide as society labels it, began to seem like a very pleasant option. In essence, death appeared to be an escape from reality, an insouciant riddance of responsibility, serving the same purpose as drugs and religion, only irreversible and its effects unknown. After all, if you believe in reincarnation, this world could be a lowly realm where those who have incurred bad karma are incarnated, and the only way to cease incarnation here to express the desire and thus incur the karma of ceasing your existence here.
However, my lenses were soon to change. Returning back from an electronics escapade at CircuitCity one night, I noticed the door to my apartment was opened. The dozens of electronic devices I had labored hundreds, if not thousands, of hours to pay for, were gone. The fruits of thousands of hours of labor were now spoiled, completely useless, due to one guilt-free, heroine high robber. My plasma TV, which cost me over a month?s salary and thus two hundred hours in a 25 square foot cubicle, was replaced by a flaming bag of feces.
Reflecting upon the incident in a corner of my apartment amidst the smell of flaming feces, I realized the criminal was an unknowing arbiter of fate. He made me realize I was unhappy not due to an unchangeable essence of the world, but because I had been living a life devoid of aim, lacking what psychologists would call definiteness of purpose. In short, my life, the greatest product of which was now a bag of flaming feces had no fucking point to it.
I had an epiphany and realized I had made myself a slave to a CircuitCity catalog. Every week I toiled for forty hours in a cubicle, one of thousands who toiled in such sties and got their grub from the same farmer. Previously, when I questioned why I dragged my self to trudge through the tedious work as an accountant for a perfume importing company, I always answered myself with images of the newest plasma TV, or that sleek new laptop. Sometimes it was even an image of a beach in Florida, destination of a vacation at an indefinite time in the future; famous Florida, where it is said shimmering sunshine slays past sins and turquoise waters wash away worries.
I was an insomniac. Even if I made a conscious effort to lie myself in bed and fall asleep, I just couldn?t. Although I would tell myself I was having trouble falling asleep because I had too many things on my mind, or my mind was always ?changing channels? as the self-pitying commercials would term it. Contrary to a bunch of shallow doctors? diagnoses, it was so simply, yet so profoundly, because I was never truly bothered by anything. Sure, John the senior vice president pestered me about when the regulators were coming for inspection, or the date of that next board meeting, but my life was devoid of anything that tested me, something that let my psyche know I still existed in an impermanent universe. In the rare instances I did fall asleep, I was almost guaranteed to face the Wolf. There exists a phenomenon known as the Hour of the Wolf prevalent among the docile males of society. It occurs at the darkest hour of the night, when one has been disturbed from a deep sleep and awoken to find his mind racing and the clock between 3 and 4 AM. The formerly benign demons in the back of the mind begin to pitchfork into the conscience and dig up the grave of every buried fear, rejuvenating every withered guilt.
The road you ?should? have taken in life takes a turn to tantalize you, and the only sound you hear is the morbid beat of your own heart. It?s as if self-implosion is imminent, you are on the verge of collapsing under its own weight, yet somehow you remain resilient and emerge with a renewed vigor for life, a new appreciation of existence. Saint John of the Cross, who termed it the ?dark night of the soul?, believes it to be a necessary event to seer imperfections of a soul. I am convinced it is the psyche testing itself, making sure it has retained its primordial power and is still capable of
But since them I am an entirely new man. No longer do I waste my life toiling for vain material possessions or waste time fantasizing about fleeting moments of it in the future as the tides of time rise. I have liberated myself from a life of docile materialism, from a life where my desire for material possessions is the governing factor of life.
The climax of my reformation is that to corporate America and the government I am already dead; a friend of mine who works at a morgue took the liberty of planting my wallet on someone whose face was deformed beyond identification. My will was signed to my brother, who I had informed of my plot prior to its undertaking, so, when summoned, he identified the scars on the body as being distinctly my own and received the $1,000,000 insurance payout for me. With no family to feed in the event of my fatality, I took a life insurance policy figuring if I died it might as well help somebody and not be in vain. Never had I expected that it would be my sustenance, suspected that I would use corporate America?s folly to plant the seeds of their own destruction.
Bump I'll write mine soon