Whatever doesn’t kill me only serves to gradually injure me, whether physically or emotionally, sapping me of the will to live, so that even if I remain alive I’m essentially a walking corpse, until I decide I would have been better off had I been killed—I’m sorry, but you know how everything else pales when you get a really nasty paper cut.
MCSWEENEY'S QUARTERLY SUBSCRIPTIONS
“An enduring literary presence.”—Chicago Tribune
“Brilliant and always surprising.”—Detroit Free Press
Use the code TENDENCY at checkout for $5 off.