Choke

by Chuck Palahniuk

“We’re so structured and micromanaged, this isn’t a world anymore, it’s a damn cruise ship.”

“Dude.” I say, “You don’t think I’m a good-hearted person, do you?” And Denny says, “Hell no, dude.” After a few blocks, all those backyards of beer, I know Denny’s being honest. I say, “You don’t think I’m really a secretly sensitive and Christlike manifestation of perfect love?” “No way, dude,” Denny says. “You’re an asshole.” And I say, “Thanks. Just checking.”

Even in a church, even laid up on an altar, without her clothes, Paige Marshall, Dr. Paige Marshall, I didn’t want her to become just another piece of ass. Because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it. Because nothing is as exciting as your fantasy. Breathe in. And then, out.

“Forget fetal tissue. Forget resenting strong women.” I say, “You want to know the real reason why I won’t fuck you?” Doing up the buttons of my britches, I told her, “Maybe the truth is I really want to like you instead.”

it’s amazing what a woman will read into it if you by accident say, I love you.

“So, you have any evil afflictions I should know about?”

In a world where everybody is waiting for some blind, random disaster or some sudden disease, the addict has the comfort of knowing what will most likely wait for him down the road. He’s taken some control over his ultimate fate, and his addiction keeps the cause of his death from being a total surprise.

“In my opinion, those who remember the past are paralyzed by it.”

When you’re an addict, you can go without feeling anything except drunk or stoned or hungry. Still, when you compare this to other feelings, to sadness, anger, fear, worry, despair, and depression, well, an addiction no longer looks so bad. It looks like a very viable option.

“No, really,” I tell Tanya. I sign the form, under sponsor, and say, “Really, nothing’s wrong. I don’t feel anything left inside.” And Tanya takes the form and says, “I can’t believe that.” What’s funny is,

Doesn’t he need to build it on paper, first? I say, don’t you need a plan? There’s permits and inspections you have to get. You have to pay fees. There’s building codes you have to know. And Denny says, “How come?”

She says, “What I’m most afraid of is, after I’m gone, there will be no one left in the entire world who’ll love Victor.”

“Anything you can acquire,” she says, “is only another thing you’ll lose.”

“We’re healthy, young, awake and alive people,” Tracy says. “When you look at it, which act is more unnatural?”

I don’t mention this stuff to the reporter, or ask him what happens to his work the moment after it goes out on the air. Airs. Is broadcast. Evaporates. Gets erased. In a world where we work on paper, where we exercise on machines, where time and effort and money passes from us with so little to show for it, Denny gluing rocks together seems normal. I don’t tell the reporter all that.

of Christ isn’t something God will decide. Maybe God left it up to people to develop the ability to bring back Christ into their lives. Maybe God wanted us to invent our own savior when we were ready. When we need it most. Denny says maybe it’s up to us to create our own messiah. To save ourselves.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel peaceful. Not happy. Not sad. Not anxious. Not horny. Just all the higher parts of my brain closing up shop. The cerebral cortex. The cerebellum. That’s where my problem is. I’m simplifying myself. Somewhere balanced in the perfect middle between happiness and sadness.

She said, “Because the only frontier left is the world of intangibles, ideas, stories, music, art.” She said, “Because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it.”

Paige and I just look at each other, at who each other is for real. For the first time. We can spend our lives letting the world tell us who we are. Sane or insane. Saints or sex addicts. Heros or victims. Letting history tell us how good or bad we are. Letting our past decide our future. Or we can decide for ourselves. And maybe it’s our job to invent something better.