Fight Club

People always ask me if I know Tyler Durden.

Three minutes.

This is it. Ground zero.

Want to say a few words for the occasion?

With a gun barrel between your teeth, you speak only in vowels.

I can't think of anything.

For a second, I forget about Tyler's controlled demolition thing

and I wonder how clean that gun is.

It's getting exciting now.

That old saying, how you always hurt the one you love,

well, it works both ways.

We have front-row seats forth is theater of mass destruction.

The Demolitions Committee of Project Mayhem

wrapped the foundation columns of a dozen buildings with blasting gelatin.

In two minutes, primary charges will blow base charges

and a few blocks will be reduced to smoldering rubble.

I know this because Tyler knows this.

Two and a half. Think of everything we've accomplished.

Suddenly I realize that all of this - the gun, the bombs, the revolution -

has got something to do with a girl named Marla Singer.

Bob. Bob had bitch tits.

This was a support group for men with testicular cancer.

The big moosie slobbering all over me, that was Bob.

We're still men.

Yes, we're men.

Men is what we are.

Bob had had his testicles removed. Then hormone therapy.

He developed bitch tits 'cause his testosterone was too high

and his body upped the estrogen.

- That was where I fit. - They'll have to drain my pecs again.

Between those huge, sweating tits

that hung enormous, the way you'd think of God's as big.

OK, you cry now.

No, wait. Back up. Let me start earlier.

For six months, I couldn't sleep.

I couldn't sleep...

With insomnia, nothing's real.

Everything's faraway.

Everything's a copy of a copy

of a copy.

When deep-space exploration ramps up,

it'll be the corporations that name everything.

The IBM Stellar Sphere.

The Microsoft Galaxy.

The Planet Starbucks.

I need you out of town this week to cover some red flags.

It must have been Tuesday. He had on his cornflower-blue tie.

You want me to deprioritize my reports until you advise of a status upgrade?

Prioritize these. Here's your flight coupons. Call me if there's any snags.

He was full of pep. Must have had his grande latte enema.

Like so many others, I had become a slave to the IKEA nesting instinct.

- I'd like to order Erika Pekkari dust ruffles. - (woman) Please hold.

If I saw something clever, like a coffee table

in the shape of a yin-yang, I had to have it.

The Klipsk personal office unit.

The Hovetrekke home exerbike.

Or the Ohamshab sofa with the Strinne green stripe pattern.

Even the Ryslampa wire lamps of environmentally friendly unbleached paper.

I'd flip through catalogs and wonder:

What kind of dining set defines me as a person?

I had it all. Even the glass dishes with tiny bubbles and imperfections,

proof that they were crafted by the honest,

hard-working, indigenous peoples of..

-(woman) Please hold. - ...wherever.

We used to read pornography.

Now it was the Horchow collection.

- No. You can't die of insomnia. - What about narcolepsy?

I nod off, I wake up in strange places. I have no idea how I got there.

- You need to lighten up. - Can you please just give me something?

Red and blue Tuinals, lipstick-red Seconals...

No. You need healthy, natural sleep.

Chew some valerian root and get more exercise.

- Hey, come on. I'm in pain. - You wanna see pain?

Swing by First Methodist, Tuesday nights. See the guys with testicular cancer.

That's pain.

I always wanted three kids. Two boys and a girl.

Mindy wanted two girls and a boy.

We never could agree on anything.

Well, she had her first child last week.

A girl.

With her... with her new husband.

And thank God. You know?

I-I'm glad for her.

Because she deserves it.

Everyone, let's thank Thomas for sharing himself with us.

Thank you, Thomas.

I look around this room, and I see a lot of courage.

And that gives me strength.

We give each other strength.

It's time for the one-on-ones.

So let's all of us follow Thomas's example and really open ourselves up.

Could you find a partner?

And this is how I met the big moosie.

His eyes already shrink-wrapped in tears.

Knees together. Those awkward little steps.

- My name is Bob. - Bob?

Bob had been a champion bodybuilder.

You know that chest expansion program on late-night TV?

That was his idea.

I was a juicer.

You know - using steroids.

Diabonal and...Wisterol.

Oh, they use that on racehorses, for Christ's sakes.

And now I'm bankrupt, I'm divorced,

my two grown kids won't even return my phone calls.

Strangers with this kind of honesty make me go a big, rubbery one.

Go ahead... Cornelius.

You can cry.

And then... something happened. I let go.

That's really good.

Lost in oblivion.

Dark and silent and complete.

I found freedom.

Losing all hope was freedom.

It's OK.

Babies don't sleep this well.

I became addicted.

If I didn't say anything, people always assumed the worst.

They cried harder...

then I cried harder.

Now we're going to open the green door, the heart chakra...

I wasn't really dying.

I wasn't host to cancer or parasites.

I was the warm little center that the life of this world crowded around.

Imagine your pain as a white ball of healing light.

It moves over your body, healing you.

Now keep this going. Remember to breathe.

And step forward through the back door of the room.

Where does it lead?

To your cave.

Step forward into your cave.

That's right.

You're going deeper into your cave,

and you're going to find your power animal.

Slide.

Every evening I died.

And every evening I was born again.

Resurrected.

Bob loved me because he thought my testicles were removed too.

Being there, pressed against his tits, ready to cry.

This was my vacation.

And she... ruined everything.

This is cancer, right?

This chick, Marla Singer, did not have testicular cancer.

She was a liar.

She had no diseases at all.

I had seen her at Free And Clear, my blood parasites group, Thursdays.

Then at Hope, my bimonthly sickle-cell circle.

And again at Seize The Day, my tuberculosis, Friday night.

Marla, the big tourist.

Her lie reflected my lie.

And suddenly, I felt nothing.

I couldn't cry. So once again, I couldn't sleep.

Next group, after guided meditation,

after we open our heart chakras, when it's time to hug,

I'll grab that bitch Marla Singer and scream:

Marla, you liar! You big tourist! I need this! Now, get out!

I hadn't slept in four days.

We'll just let that dry...

When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep

and you're never really awake.

To begin tonight's communion, Chloe would like to say a few words.

Oh, yeah. Chloe.

Chloe looked the way Meryl Streep's skeleton would look

if you made it walk around a party being extra nice to everybody.

Well, I'm still here.

But I don't know for how long.

That's as much certainty as anyone can give me.

But I've got some good news.

I no longer have any fear of death.

But... I am in a pretty lonely place.

No one will have sex with me.

I'm so close to the end,

and all I want is to get laid for the last time.

I have pornographic movies in my apartment,

- and lubricants and amyl nitrite. - Thank you, Chloe.

Everyone, let's thank Chloe.

Thank you, Chloe.

Now, let's ready our self for guided meditation.

You're standing at the entrance of your cave.

You step inside your cave and you walk...

If I did have a tumor, I'd name it Marla.

Marla.

The scratch on the roof of your mouth

that would heal if you could stop tonguing it, but you can't.

...deeper into your cave as you walk.

You feel a healing energy all around you.

Now find your power animal.

Slide.

OK. Let's partner up.

Pick someone special to you tonight.

Hey.

- We need to talk. - Sure.

- I'm onto you. - What?

Yeah. You're a faker. You're not dying.

Sorry?

In the Tibetan-philosophy, Sylvia Plath sense, I know we're all dying.

But you're not dying the way Chloe back there is dying.

So?

So you're a tourist.