The dilemma of post-modern man, so eloquently stated in "The Fight Club" is this: work sucks, insomnia sucks, emotional emptiness sucks, women suck, blowing up corporations rules!!!! From this stand point I rather like the film. Modern life creates in the modern male a schizophrenic multiple personality disorder do to binarily opposed rolls of what primitive man was and what modern man is. The primitive man longs to destroy the artificial constructs of society created by the modern man. The biggest being MONEY. Even the name "Cornelius" is invoked for christ's sake. Cornelius the ape longs to unearth the truth of the past which is, "Man once ruled." Cornelius the man looks back to a time when there were not the false constructs set up by man, to a more simple truth like that held by the apes or something like that.

If my half-assed appraisal of "Fight Club" seems, well, half-assed, that's because I watched the movie while hurling super-ultra concentrated buttery buttered with hot butter-substitute popped corn down my esophagus at a stomache capable of speaking in a discernable nine different languages and causing extreme pain whenever I didn't understand the words. My stomache came as close to English as old German. During the movie I would think, "Yeah, bitches, I'm the only one in the theater who's really taking the pain." I was in a battle with myself equal in drama to the one unfolding on the screen, except my pecs and abs aren't quite up to Pitt standards or Norton even, sadly, and for the women, and some men, in the audience the pecs and abs had everything as much to do with the drama as the overbaked narration. I am Rick's sense of pectoral disapproval and narrative beratement. I am Rick's stomache, I may decide to kill him on a lark. Never again will I eat poison for non-reactional purposes.

Today, in the gurgling aftermath of my abdominal blight, I must attend my first day of job training at Teletech. This is what my job will consist of today: reading Crime and Punishment and writing more of the dismembered teste tale. I didn't get to any other writing projects over the weekend. I did write more about the testicle, and then threw away most of it, and then wrote more, and then incorporated back in most of what I threw out. Am I disappointed with mysef? No, I blame my pain. Not very stoic of me. The truth is I have work more important than the testicle to write. So why don't I? Time. I can create the time. Until today I had no job so what is this lack of time bullshit? I can't say. There is more to life. More? Uh-oh, I sense a fundamental rift in the nature of my being. We all know what happens when that occurs by having watched "Fight Club." I shouldn't mention "Fight Club" anymore. I'm being to hard on a mediocre film with no aspirations to be anything but mediocre and I here I am obsessing over it. No more talking about "Fight Club."

Today.

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