Liveblog

In the early morning of Mar. 17, 2013, Boyle resolved: "I will be liveblogging everything i[sic] do, think, feel, and say, to the best of my ability." Originally posted to her personal Tumblr, the project is collected as a 700-page tome. Boyle makes clear from the first page that "**THIS IS NOT GOING TO BE INTERESTING**," and, more often than not, she keeps that promise-unless a reader thinks it's riveting that on Apr. 8, 2013, at 8:31 p.m., Boyle "ate baba ganoush and three rice cakes." Nevertheless, the book is frequently funny, clever, and even heartwarming. Over the six months chronicled, Boyle complicates things with her ex-boyfriend Zachary, moves to New York with her cats Alvie and Shirley, contemplates a "realistic course of action" to becoming an astronaut, has a Kafkaesque DMV experience (the only kind), and does enough Xanax, Adderall, morphine, crack cocaine, Vyvanse, noopept, heroin, nicotine, and Monster energy drink to give Hunter S. Thompson a run for his money. Indeed, calculating how many days Boyle has been awake, or wincing when she ingests more amphetamines at 3:03 a.m. and operates a motor vehicle, offers some of the book's most page-turning thrills. Boyle's story, of a 20-something trying to get her life together, is universal and relatable. Though not a narrative in any conventional sense, this is a riveting concept and a challenging volume. (Sept.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

Mix David Foster Wallace with Patti Smith, Augusten Burroughs, and Karen Finley, throw in powders and pills, stuff it in a deep-dish pizza box, and you're in the territory of compulsive blogger Boyle's post-postmodern blockbuster."Feel like I'm about to vomit and I'm being watched and my execution is soon." So writes sometime Vice columnist Boyle toward the end of this long, loping hyperextension of the "quantified self" or life-logging movement, by which every thought, every detail, every meal, every bed-wetting, every kiss, every bowel movement, every drink, every drug over the year 2013 gets recorded, "everything i do, think, feel, and say, to the best of my ability." Oh, are there drugs and drinks, and oh are there all those other things, most of them definitively in the realm of the First-World problem. Xanax, Adderall, heroin, energy drinks, phenethylamine, doughnuts, pizza, zinfandel, kale, cocaine, and kombucha: Enough of that, and some weirdly surreal moments are wont to happen, as when Boyle, as if discovering language, writes, " bumpy fish' is a code name for bumpy fish. and maybe that's all you need to know." Maybe. Probably. It stands to reason that living in Brooklyn while entertaining such a diet, staying up all night and sleeping all day, and spending your life on the keyboard might impede one's financial progress, and so it is: "dad agreed to give me money for groceries and things," she writes. "seems shitty of me. i'm 27 years old. i'm sick." Dad is always there to help, it seems, and so is Mom, while others in the chronicler's life are less helpful, from the landlord demanding rent to "everyone who doesn't floss regularly." Still, Boyle's log/blog, billed as a novel, is full of zeitgeist-y stuff that will puzzle future historians, punctuated by moments of millennial aspiration, self-direction, and exhortation, from "Do not fuck with me" to "hang up clothes/laundry."A stunt more than a literary achievement; not without merit but requiring more effort than most readers are likely to want to give. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

[1.jpg]starting today, march 17, 2013, i will be liveblogging everything i do. right now there is no one i talk to frequently enough to disappoint. the only person keeping tabs on my life is me. it's always been as time has been passing, i've been feelhas that's not the strange thing, i've always felt like i'm watching my life, but recently it feels like i've as time has been passing, my life has been feeling more like an event i've been feeling more like i'm attending the event of my life than actively participating my life has been feeling more like an event i'm attending due to being shackled in secondary/intermediate stage of 1. less like a [person dutifully keeping tabs, look up something re keeping tabs], my participation in my life has been feeling like it doesn't belong to me or something, like it's just this event i'm not participating in much, and maybe wasn't invited. used to expect my life has been feeling like an event i might not have been invited to.i've been feeling an equally uncontrollable sensation of my life not belonging to me, it's just this event i don't seem to be participating in much, and am slowly discovering i wasn't invited. i'm starting to get the feeling i wasn't invited. it's just this event i don't seem to be participating in much, and maybe wasn't invited. to be participating, and so am sort of failing. i witness myself allowing opportunities fading away myself allowing opportunites to fade due to my lack of follow-through on the tasks necessary to complete them, because for whatever reason, it's hard for me to make myself do things that i know will make me happy sometimes.i can't control getting older but i can control what i do as i age. also i feel like my memory is deteriorating. i used to like documenting my daily activities. i liked that. lately the things i've been doing haven't felt worth remembering, but i think that could just be a mind trick and if i start writing again, i'll remember everything is basically the same as however many years ago i felt more satisfied or hopeful or whatever it is i don't feel now.**THIS IS NOT GOING TO BE INTERESTING** **I AM NOT GOING TO TRY TO MAKE THIS SOUND INTERESTING OR TRY TO MAKE YOU LIKE ME OR THINK ABOUT IF YOU ARE READING OR ENJOYING READING THIS, IT'S JUST GOING TO BE WHAT IT IS: A FUNCTIONAL THING THAT WILL HOPEFULLY HELP ME FEEL MORE LIKE IMPROVING MY LIFE**going to start a little earlier, with what happened earlier tonight:2:00AM: pushed orange peel down garbage disposal and walked to my room. heard garbage disposal turn on, then dad's voice announcing 'oranges smell good' to empty kitchen and living room.2:30AM: walked to mom's room to show parents youtube video of 'the meaning of life' by don hertzfelt. during opening credits dad said 'oh wow, the sundance film festival,' and 'a long trip down a birth canal.' mom gently quieted him. focused on eating my orange. parents laughed in a manner like they felt pressured, maybe, when the cartoons started talking. stars replaced the talking cartoons and dad said 'oh, well now that made me like it,' stressing 'that.' near the end of the video, a small alien is left alone to look at the stars. mom sounded teary and like she might be smiling. dad talked excitedly about not understanding what the video was trying to say but he really, really liked it, like 'hoo boy did i ever like that.' mom said 'it's not over yet, mike.' dad adjusted his posture and said 'oh! oh no, hush, let's hush and see what else happens.' i didn't look at either parent. the poignant part of the video had passed. i said 'yeah, so.' credits scrolled over pretty galaxy-like orbs. i said 'yeah, the guy, he didn't use computers to make it.' dad said 'oh, no computers? oh wow it was just great, wow, really great, is there some kind of website i can get to, to get to this guy? i really didn't quite get it but the flavor of it is just so, wow. it's really something.' i said 'i don't know his website.' it was hard to look at dad. i said goodnight. mom smiled and dad thanked me again for showing him the movie. i walked back to my room, feeling like i had just missed a crucial, seemingly easily-made three-pointer and the other team had taken possession of the ball.3:12AM: plugged drain and turned faucets. sat in my room, waiting for tub to fill. dad stood in hallway between bathroom and my room and asked about my symptoms, which stopped a few days ago, and i'm pretty sure were caused by drugs i did in new york. i haven't wanted parents to worry so i've been feigning a slow recovery from a stomach flu. told dad i'm feeling better. he reminded me xanax would help me sleep and i thanked him. placed macbook on chair in front of tub, for 'bathtub internet viewing station.' retrieved papaya from fridge. snorted medium-large amount of heroin from cute box given to me by tao, from a recent trip to taiwan. it's a square made of four smaller squares with lids. almost transparent blue color. tapped baggie until 'herion quadrant' was filled with an amount of powder, for next time. undressed and got in tub. 4:00AM: sort of ignored gchat from ex-boyfriend, then responded. he hasn't yet. washed and conditioned hair. submerged all but eyes and nose under water. felt anemone-like. rubbed fingernails up and down legs and watched grayish flecks of skin float around body. thought about things i said i'd do by monday. replied to two emails with difficulty, typing with one hand and covering an eye with the other. rinsed with fresh water, unplugged drain, toweled dry. ate 1mg xanax. 4:10AM: peeled orange over kitchen sink, feeling calm and warm but also 'is this...too much...does 'too much' feel like this?' pictured dad in the morning, using garbage disposal and announcing 'oranges smell good' like he did earlier tonight, only i'm dead in my bed. 4:30AM: researched heroin/xanax interactions. seems like i'll probably just sleep a lot tonight. probably wouldn't hurt to vomit. 4:42AM: used variety of finger pressures/speeds to encourage chunks of mostly undigested fruit into toilet bowl. saw a little fresh blood on thumb. used to be able to vomit by like, tickling the back of my tongue. drank water and jumped/twisted abdomen, to stir anything that had settled, then kneeled for 'the final emptying.' legs felt weak. vomit was pretty, shades of orange. realized i was looking at it without thoughts/emotions, but some similarly dominant level of brain activity. flushed toilet. brushed teeth, washed face. ate raw 'go pecan pie' granola bar.5:36AM: the things i've done tonight are not things i would normally tell people i did, i think. 6:11AM: stomach is making whale noises. starting to hear distant cars. it's always bad when you start to hear cars. wish i wanted to masturbate. i feel like, 5000 years old, like leto ii in 'god emperor of dune.'6:35AM: drinking unpasteurized milk mom said 'comes right from the cow.' holding four raspberry cookies. probably going to get seconds.6:51AM: read liveblog from the beginning. forgot i'd eaten 'go pecan pie' bar, so i will not be getting seconds after all. thought 'the helping is beginning already, excellent' in monty burns' voice.6:56AM: looked at facebook and felt sad and bewildered and like 'shit, what did i do' about a person i like, who has indirectly communicated negative feelings about me. 'in my younger, wilder days' i probably would've tried harder to make amends. now i accept not being liked. that's depressing, seems like faulty logic. when you give up/resign, you think you're being open-minded because you're accepting something you'd rather not, but really you're just less open to possibilities other than 'i will feel disappointed.' i could type more about this but it feels better not to. interesting. want to eat two egg mcmuffins and hash browns and orange juice and for it to be night all tomorrow. 8:25AM: woke feeling as bad but not worse than yesterady. ate 1mg xanax for medicinal purposes. toasted 'bagel thin' condensed bagel. spread chive cream cheese on half that didn't burn. want more sleep. smells like burning. 8:45AM: unplugged toaster. troubled by 'sleeping at sunrise then waking every 2-3 hours until early evening' routine. going to look at internet and wait for xanax to kick in.11:00AM: woke to muffled talking sounds punctuated by basso voice of dad, who seemed to be agreeing with something a lot. covered head and macbook with blanket. 3:15PM: my job was to paint the freshmen's tents pink. i knew earth would explode in a few minutes, because the universe was resetting. this had been shown to me in a kind of pre-flight safety video. the freshman looked human but acted like feral cats. they shared a brain with 'feral cat concerns.' i was their caretaker, kind of. they wanted sex with me. told dream to mom. she said 'are you sure you want to be moving to new york right now?' i said 'i don't know what else to do, i need to do something, i feel like i'm dying.' spinach, avocado, cucumber, coconut water, banana in blender. mom described plot of murder mystery novel. i looked for another banana or a suitable second banana substitute. mom said 'i'm so glad you don't want to be an F.B.I. agent.' i said 'yeah, i thought about being one, back when i watched 'silence of the lambs.' they don't let you do drugs though.' she said 'what?' i said 'it seems too hard.'3:53PM: mom said 'meggie do you want dad to bring home some bananas? he should be home soon.' i said 'no thank you, that's okay, i'll get them.' she said 'it really wouldn't be a problem.' i said 'i know, i know, i just feel like i want to take a drive,' like napoleon dynamite. ate 10mg adderall. things i need to do today:-write letter recommending myself as if i am tao and he is my employer-ask keith (friend/former boss) if he'll write short letter recommending me, or if he'll endorse letter i'll write as him-ask colin (real estate agent) what time and where in NYC he wants to meet tomorrow -write cover letter for apartment application binder-buy binder for apartment application binder-write article for vice column**TO ANYONE READING: I FEEL TERMINALLY OUT OF IDEAS FOR THINGS TO WRITE BESIDES LIVEBLOG. HARD TO BE FUNNY/CREATIVE. I THINK A PROMPT OR SOMETHING MIGHT HELP. IF YOU EMAIL ME A LIST OF 10-20 THINGS YOU'D LIKE TO READ, WRITTEN BY ME, I'LL PAY YOU SOMETHING. THANK YOU. THEMEGANBOYLE@GMAIL.COM IF INTERESTED**4:11PM: texted keith, asked if he wants to get drinks tonight. texted colin. colin is three years younger than me, owns a small business, works tech support for cable company he might also own, has served in military, has yet to but will most surely definitely graduate college. dwarves me with his success. lives in the apartment across the hall from the one i want. 4:17PM: watching video of sam pink reading at KGB. he's said 'sour cream' twice, so far. the lighting is making his face look like 'what the other hitman would've been told not to remember.' he looks handsome, like grecian god style. people laughed onscreen. sort of remember where i stood in relation to camera that night. would be crazy if i knew where i stood in relation to camera at all times. need to get my ass out the door to buy bananas. he said 'sour cream' again.4:26PM: skipped to kitchen, making a noise like 'blreelerleeloobleeloolooloo.' opened four-pack steaz energy drinks and took one as a reward for 'being so productive so far.' skipped back to room thinking 'how will i type blreelerloorlooleeloo' noise?' no responses from keith or colin yet. going to read liveblog i've written as a reward. this is not a reward. shit. i should just get moving instead. no, allow yourself small rewards, otherwise this won't work. small rewards. shit.4:32PM: keith texted 'Dang. Id love to madge, but I'm afraid I can't.'**IF ANYONE READING THIS WOULD LIKE TO WRITE A SHORT LETTER RECOMMENDING ME, LIKE, PRETENDING YOU KNOW ME AS AN EMPLOYEE BUT HAVE COME TO THINK OF ME AS A FRIEND YOU TRUST THE WAY YOU TRUST A NEIGHBOR OR TENANT WHICH ARE BOTH AREAS YOU THINK I COULD EXCEL, COLIN SAID IT WOULD BE GOOD TO INCLUDE THE WORD 'INTEGRITY,' PLEASE EMAIL ME, WILL PAY YOU, NEEDS TO SOUND LIKE WE'VE KNOWN EACH OTHER FOR YEARS ****MY LIFE IS........................................JESUS...........FEEL.....JESUS................5:06PM: have been unfocused-ly switching from texts, emails, i don't know, screens, i look like this right now, imagine this thing greeting you at the gates of hell:[2.JPG]5:26PM: matthew donahoo has come to my rescue with a sweet letter of recommendation and writing topic lists. masha has started liveblog project. sam cooke emailed list too. my crotch smells like coconut oil. Excerpted from Liveblog by Megan Boyle All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.