Invisible Monsters

by Chuck Palahniuk

There’s nothing about me to look at so most people don’t. It’s a look that says: Thank you for not sharing.

Sister Katherine was the kind of nun who wears a wedding ring. And married people always think love is the answer.

“It’s too lonely at my real house,” Evie would say, “And I hate how I don’t feel real enough unless people are watching.”

Now is the autumn of our ennui.

The wild daisies and Indian paintbrush whizzing past are just the genitals of a different life form.

Another billboard: Dairy Bite—The Chewing Gum Flavored With the Low-Fat Goodness of Real Cheese

Game shows are designed to make us feel better about the random, useless facts that are all we have left of our education.

I look like shit, dead. I look like dead shit.

“Your heart is my piñata.”

The Brandy Alexander Nipple Relocation Program.

That’s the word the plastic surgeons used. Reabsorb. Into my face, as if I’m just a sponge made of skin.

“My first idea was to have one arm and one leg amputated, the left ones, or the right ones,” she looks at me and shrugs, “but no surgeon would agree to help me.” She says, “I considered AIDS, for the experience, but then everybody had AIDS and it looked so mainstream and trendy.”

All God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. We must never, ever be boring.

Go figure, but Texans seem to be a lot more comfortable around disastrous house fires than they are around anal sex.

Find what you’re afraid of most and go live there.