If This Book Exists, You're in the Wrong Universe (John Dies at the End, #4)

by Jason Pargin

They wanted it to always be at the back of your mind, almost as if some forms of modern entertainment are really about creating a continuous sense of low-level anxiety.

Man, Florida seemed like a terrifying place.

The process of trying to find some grand purpose can be destructive,

not starving but hopelessly locked out of the middle class

America is, after all, full of dirt-cheap comforts. My T-shirts are five bucks at Walmart. The most amazing fast food costs less than what you’d pay to make it yourself. A good coffeemaker will beat anything you get in a fancy café. Cheap alcohol gets you drunk faster than the expensive stuff. So you can chill in a lawn chair on a nice autumn day with a beverage in your hand and say, “This isn’t so bad.” But if one of us gets a toothache or breaks our glasses or, god forbid, both? Well, now our whole world is threatening to come apart.

Their true wealth is invisible to them because it comes in the form of what they’re missing: that constant hum of anxiety that sucks the energy from the rest of us. If their refrigerator craps out, they can fix it. If they fall down the stairs, their insurance will cover the hospital bill. If the breadwinner loses his job, he’ll have his pick of landing spots. When I daydream about having money, it’s not about jewelry and Jacuzzis and Jet Skis. I dream about having that unseen cushion, that margin of error I can just take for granted.

“The very first words of the scriptures state that our universe is a creation and a temporary one at that. Considering that, on at least one occasion, God and Satan placed a wager on the outcome of human affairs, calling this a simulation, or even a game, seems entirely appropriate.

you need to abandon the childish concept of being ‘in trouble’ because the grown-ups are criticizing you.

John was one of those people who comforted himself by repeating the main plot points out loud.

I thought about how it’s weird that we have different rooms for doing different things and how the fancier your house is, the more rooms and walls it has. I wondered who invented walls and what he was ashamed of. Probably began with a guy hanging curtains up around his corner of the tent, like, “I don’t want you to see what I’m doing over here.” Soon, everything was walls and shame, in our houses, in our minds. The guy was probably just jerking off. What, like he’s the only one? Now everybody else is ashamed to do it, because walls and shame isolate us, make us think we’re unique in our vices. Thanks, wall guy.

The devil is real, but he doesn’t turn up in a red suit with hooves. You have to imagine him as like a disease that you get—you pass it on and you don’t even know it. Educated people don’t call it the devil; they call it trauma. It rewires your brain and tries to spread itself down to the next generation and the one after that, the pain rolling down through time.

Being a teenager means feeling like you’re alone; getting older means realizing you never were.”

Holy shit thats a good line.

That each individual human brain essentially operates as a hive, with competing impulses and agendas constantly warring for supremacy, well, that’s a conversation they’re just not ready to have.

All I can say is that John has this steadfast belief that he can just guitar his way out of any disaster scenario. He keeps one by his bed.”

undulating

Writing crime!