The way I hope to write some day

I felt like sharing what is probably the most clever book I read so far in my 23 year lifespan.
This is the first page, copy typed by yours truly, in agreement with the Fair Use policy I hope to have understood correctly.
Jail me if I didn’t.

I can count my overdoses on one hand:
August 1985. Percocet. The 5mg tablets were identical to the 325 mg tablets which were identical to the generic laxatives. I was in no shape for fine print. ER, three ounces of ipecac and solid heaves of poisons and binder, thirty-seven hours of cramps and shitting blood.
February 1986. Methocarbamol. Yellow caplets, bright like a chile’s crayon sunscape. Those five pills stopped my hearst and I saw the brain seizure tunnel of light before the EMT’s shocked me back alive. They billed me $160 for that jolt.
June 16986. Demerol and thirty-two aspirin reopening the damage I did when I was fourteen.
November 1986. A busy year. Vicodin. Imagine waking up to your morning stomach knot and subsequent rituals:
Shower.
Coffee.
Traffic.
Talk radio.
Hell.
Home.
Drink.
But you remember that it’s Sunday. That four second blast of relief is what Vicodin feels like for six hours. But overdose and you’re heaving blanks,a pair of fist wringing your stomach like a dam rag, trails of warm spit hanging from your mouth while you try to move your limbs but can’t. Words hit your brain like garbage churning in a breakwater, not order, no connection. Fingers. Name. Hear.
February 1987. Darvocet. And a pint of bourbon.
Yesterday, August 17, 1987. Carispodol. Comes in a white tablet like a big-ass vitamin, 350 mg of muscle liquefier for those tense, recovering athletes and furniture movers. Too much, and those relaxed muscles include your diaphragm, then your heart. It feels like drowning or a sumo wrestler sitting on your chest. I’d done three rails of blow to keep my heart from stopping before the paralysis set in, but they hadn’t been enough.
That’s how Rasputin found me.

ed. note: This book is part of what wikipedia calls Transgressional fiction.
Imagine my surprise, stumbling upon a wiki page that has a label for practically every book I like. A kind of Truman Show warm blanket of understanding and familiarity. Here’s the short description of the genre:

Transgressional fiction or transgressive fiction is a genre of literature that focuses on characters who feel confined by the norms and expectations of society and who use unusual and/or illicit ways to break free of those confines. Because they are rebelling against the basic norms of society, protagonists of transgressional fiction may seem mentally ill, anti-social and/or nihilistic. The genre deals extensively with abnormal psychology and taboo subject matters such as drugs, sex, violence, incest, pedophilia, and crime.

List of books belonging to the genre, each of them on my bookshelves:
Choke by Chuck Palahniuk (and all other works by him)
The Dice man by Luke Rhineheart
The Contortionist Handbook by Craig Clevenger
The Monkey Wrench Gang by Edward Abbey
Generation X by Douglas Coupland
Women by Charles Bukowski
Platforme by Michel Houellebecq

Contact me if you want to borrow any of these.

Transgressionally yours,
Tal Benisty

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