I read "Fighting club" and "Lullbieng song" and get hooked on his disturbing style. Any recommendations on authors and works?

for some reason, this story posted anonymously on 7chan's /b/ really reminded me of Palaniuk's style. I have to cut it up a bit, here we go:

// No.228698's Story
// written by 228698
// edited by 229690
// from www.7chan.org

No.228698

/b/, your being really slow right now, but I love you. I think it's time I tell you a story.

I was not the worst in my class, nor the worst behaved, nor the slowest, not the bottom or the top, not even consistently, reliably, conspicuously quiet. I am easily forgotten, not remembered by anyone looking back. But as far as I can tell, I am the only one to have made it here. And I did it with one mistake, only one.

Alex thinks it was more than one. He thinks it was a mistake ever to invest such hope in finding her, not just now, but way back then in university. Was that my first mistake? It was impossible not to have noticed her picture. I had watched the way she posted herself, the way she would smile. She acted in a manner that suggested she was completely comfortable in her skin, a manner that elevated a natural beauty untouched by artifice to a level none of the other pretty camwhores could hope to attain, no matter their expertise in lotions, cosmetics, or internet disease. Yet she was without affectation. You saw her and felt some hope. How cruel would it be to be shown her by chance and then be denied moar of her, denied her because not everybody could know her, even a little.

But, as it happened, friends, bit-players, introduced me to 7chan. It was in a tutorial. "This is a website", someone said, and I thought, yes, I know. We're going to be great friends. Let me upset the rhythm of its posting just once; just the way she disrupts mine, every time I see her pics. She was captivating and at the same time intimidating. Alex thinks it was figment of my imagination, this person I was seeing. He'd say she was just some pretty, underaged girl. Another camwhore posting pictures of herself on the internet. Not worth entombment for almost 5 years inside a crumbling bayside apartment. And not worth this more formal, tangible, incarceration.

It feels ridiculous to make a salad for only yourself. You wash the lettuce, tear it apart, cut up the tomatoes, add a little dressing, and wonder whether it will feel less ridiculous, hollow, artificial, with the passage of time. Don't add dressing. No one is watching. Try to cover the hum of the fluorescent strip light and the fridge with the radio. The radio is worse. It shouts at you, advertisements, drums and bass, little girl or boy groups voicing perfectly timed musical cliches to computerized accompaniments, right wing shock jocks with switchboards lit up by fear, hate and ignorance, or the New Age flatulence masquerading as enlightenment. Turn it off and that just leaves you with the hum and the salad. If you don’t add dressing, it will be over that much faster. Then you try leaving out the tomatoes. I've mentioned this to Alex, even offered to let him publish it as his own, include it in the DSM V, the idea that there is a definite warning sign for people living by themselves: the salad dressing stops appearing in the salad. Then the tomatoes, then the salad itself. Then you're just left with the bowl which, sooner or later, you fill with cereal and milk and then---for the hell of it---you add a little scotch to the milk.

And now the market determins that your job ought to go the way of the tomatoes. No place you have to be at any particular time anymore: you find yourself drinking alcohol dangerously, without any pretext. Some people drink to celebrate, others to unwind after work, others to lubricate social intercourse. Not you. At first you drink because it's one of the last things that they, the others, the still-functioning, gainfully employed, socially participating others...the last thing they do that you can too. Or maybe you drink for the taste. Then you drink as a dare. You dare yourself to have another one when it isn’t really even appropriate, to see whether anyone will notice. But there isn’t ever anyone to notice, and you drink upon the realization of this. Then you browse 7chan to see if you can get from 2:17pm to 3:55pm without noticing the time, without feeling it. The idea of slicing a tomato when you've reached this stage is completely out of the question.

No one calls. After a while you feel pleased with how long it has been since the last time you thought about how long it had been since somebody called. You can't remember when you last remembered. You must be really getting good at living like this. And it's just as well because when the phone rings by this time, even when it's a wrong number, a hang-up, or a salesman, you don’t want to speak to anyone. You're in no fit state to speak to someone, say, selling you bread. Milk, cereal, toilet paper, or scotch, you have trouble. You have to practice the words and the tone of the small talk, and it always sounds stilted. You're either too vague or too focused or too polite. The person serving you looks at you funny and you know you've done it badly. You can't do it anymore.

The neighbors can do it but not you. You hear them laugh at night with their dinner guests. You hear them in their beds. You hear them wheather you want to or not. Their groans must be exaggerated.

You ask yourself if it would ever really be that good. A little numbed, you turn on you computer in the other room. You go to a directory and to a folder that you don’t visit much anymore, and fumble around with the files. And there she is, lovely as ever. There are more images, deeper and deeper. Ah yes, imagine. Imagine her skin, you weak bastard. Concentrate and you won't hear them. Smooth, olive, soft, a sweet scent on her neck, on the back of her neck and below her ears, and you burying your face in her hair. Imagine her body. You never know where to start. Imagine the taste of her, how she would take you. Imagine the different rhythms she'd have for you, the change in the tension of her body. Imagine the tightness of her, the many ways she'd hold you, the sweetness of it. What ever they do next door is a far cry from what you'll one day have. If you weren’t so drunk, you'd call out. They would know who it was, but to hell with them. No, not really, to hell with you and when they do finally stop, your head is between two pillows and your breathing in the alcohol from your own breath. They wake you up in the morning. You hear the getting up. There is a point to getting up, but for the life of you, you cant find it until you see through the mess you've made of everything, of her. The browser is still open, and you get up to look at it again.

The place is a mess. Things are wearing out all around you but she looks at you with those dark eyes, and the impression you get suggests that maybe only she is real and that everything else, the solitary existence, the unemployment, the whole damn mess, is imagined. She has to be real. There she is in the photographs as true as anything ever was. She is smiling, you are not. Something had made her smile, but the smile was not for joy. Perhaps it was for you, because she knew you might need it later. Would she remain elusive for so long? As you close you return her to her place. As you blow dust from her visage, or wipe your eyes, you must have known.

But as before, she looks at you now, is there for you now, and you can't think of a reason this ever has to change. Why put those photo's away? It's part of your past, as much as it is part of hers. And... No, wait. It's your past more than it is hers. Alex says that's the whole problem or that's the start of it. You need her much, much more than she needs you. You can admit that if you have to, but in all likelyhood you won't ever have to because nobody will see her there, set as your desktop. Nobody ever comes here. And anyway, where is the harm? You look forward fondly towards the time you expect to spend with this woman. It's as simple as that. To the poetry and novels, music, and videotaped movies, to the list of things you call on during difficult times, you add her, the idea of her, neuronal and photographic. Is that so unhealthy? People use all sorts of things to get by. Your devices are not so immoral. They weren’t even that illegal. Or they weren’t then, before they became immoral and illegal, before they became unhealthy.

I'm going to stop myself here, /b/
I really needed to get that off my chest
Seems like I got a little sidetracked, though
Maybe one day I'll finish my story for you.

GJ failing!

>>1
Choke is also good by Chuck Palanick. (I don't remember if that's how you spelled his name though... I thought there was a 'u' or something in it, then again I haven't seen his name in a long while.)

Just stick with Vonnegut. It's for your own good.