Skinny Guys Fight Till They're Burger.

I've Met God Across His Long Walnut Desk With His Diplomas Hanging On The Wall Behind Him, And God Asks Me, 'why?' Why Did I Cause So Much Pain? Didn't I Realize That Each Of Us Is A Sacred, Unique Snowflake Of Special Unique Specialness? Can't I See How We're All Manifestations Of Love? I Look At God Behind His Desk, Taking Notes On A Pad, But God's Got This All Wrong. We Are Not Special. We Are Not Crap Or Trash, Either. We Just Are. We Just Are, And What Happens Just Happens. And God Says, 'no, That's Not Right.' Yeah. Well. Whatever. You Can't Teach God Anything.

We Want You, Not Your Money. As Long As You're At Fight Club, You're Not How Much Money You've Got In The Bank. You're Not Your Job. You're Not Your Family, And You're Not Who You Tell Yourself. You're Not Your Name. You're Not Your Problems. You're Not Your Age. You Are Not Your Hopes. You Will Not Be Saved. We Are All Going To Die, Someday.

We All Want To Explain Ourselves. Nobody Wants To Be Forgotten.

This Is Why I Loved The Support Groups So Much, If People Thought You Were Dying, They Gave You Their Full Attention. If This Might Be The Last Time They Saw You, They Really Saw You. Everything Else About Their Checkbook Balance And Radio Songs And Messy Hair Went Out The Window. You Had Their Full Attention. People Listened Instead Of Just Waiting For Their Turn To Speak. And When They Spoke, They Weren't Just Telling You A Story. When The Two Of You Talked, You Were Building Something, And Afterward You Were Both Different Than Before.

I Am Joe's Enraged, Inflamed, Sense Of Rejection.