Бойцовский клуб

           Insomnia,andnowthewholeworldfigurestostopbyandtakeadumponmygrave. 

           MybossiswearinghisgraytiesotodaymustbeaTuesday. 

           MybossbringsasheetofpapertomydeskandasksifI’mlookingforsomething. Thispaperwasleftinthecopymachine,hesays,andbeginstoread: 

           "Thefirstruleoffightclubisyoudon’ttalkaboutfightclub." 

           Hiseyesgosidetosideacrossthepaper,andhegiggles. 

           "Thesecondruleoffightclubisyoudon’ttalkaboutfightclub." 

           IhearTyler’swordscomeoutofmyboss,MisterBosswithhismidlifespreadandfamilyphotoonhisdeskandhisdreamsaboutearlyretirementandwintersspentatatrailer-parkhookupinsomeArizonadesert. Myboss,withhisextra-starchedshirtsandstandingappointmentforahaircuteveryTuesdayafterlunch,helooksatme,andhesays: 

           "Ihopethisisn’tyours." 

           IamJoe’sBlood-BoilingRage. 

           Tyleraskedmetotypeupthefightclubrulesandmakehimtencopies. Notnine,noteleven. Tylersays,ten. Still,Ihavetheinsomnia,andcan’tremembersleepingsincethreenightsago. ThismustbetheoriginalItyped. Imadetencopies,andforgottheoriginal. Thepaparazziflashofthecopymachineinmyface. Theinsomniadistanceofeverything,acopyofacopyofacopy. Youcan’ttouchanything,andnothingcantouchyou.