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Diary of an Oxygen Thief (1) (The Oxygen Thief Diaries) Paperback – June 14, 2016 by Anonymous

> > > SKU: 9781501157851

PAPERBACK

[160 pages]

PUB:  June 14, 2016

$16.00 $10.75

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Description

Author: Anonymous

Brand: Gallery Books

Edition: Reprint

Features:

  • Gallery Books

Package Dimensions: 13x208x136

Number Of Pages: 160

Release Date: 14-06-2016

Details: Product Description
Hurt people hurt people.

Say there was a novel in which Holden Caulfield was an alcoholic and Lolita was a photographer’s assistant and, somehow, they met in
Bright Lights, Big City. He’s blinded by love. She by ambition.
Diary of an Oxygen Thief is an honest, hilarious, and heartrending novel, but above all, a very realistic account of what we do to each other and what we allow to have done to us.
Review
“Kinky, artsy, and swoon-worthy.” ―
New York Magazine

“The author does a great job. I loved it!” — Junot Diaz, author of The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

“First he steals the oxygen from you, then he spits it right back in your face. One of the most interesting and controversial encounters I’ve made through a book.” — Lorenzo DeRita, editor in chief, COLORS magazine

“A dark-horse Williamsburg bestseller.” — Jonas Kyle, Spoonbill & Sugartown, Booksellers

“F. Scott Fitzgerald for the iPad generation.” — Richard Nash, author of What is the Business of Literature?
About the Author
Anonymous is the
New York Times bestselling author of
Diary of an Oxygen Thief.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I liked hurting girls.
Mentally, not physically, I never hit a girl in my life. Well, once. But that was a mistake. I’ll tell you about it later. The thing is, I got off on it. I really enjoyed it.
It’s like when you hear serial killers say they feel no regret, no remorse for all the people they killed. I was like that. Loved it. I didn’t care how long it took either, because I was in no hurry. I’d wait until they were totally in love with me. Till the big saucer eyes were looking at me. I loved the shock on their faces. Then the glaze as they tried to hide how much I was hurting them. And it was legal. I think I
killed a few of them. Their souls, I mean. It was their souls I was after. I know I came close a couple of times. But don’t worry, I got my comeuppance. That’s why I’m telling you this. Justice was done. Balance has been restored. The same thing happened to me, only worse. Worse because it happened to me. I feel purged now, you see. Cleansed. I’ve been punished, so it’s okay to talk about it all. At least that’s how it seems to me. I carried the guilt of my crimes around with me for years after I stopped drinking. I couldn’t even look at a girl, much less believe I deserved to converse with one. Or maybe I was just afraid that they’d see through me. Either way, after getting into Alcoholics Anonymous, I didn’t even kiss a girl for five years. Seriously. Not so much as holding hands.
I meant business.
I think I always knew deep down I had a drinking problem. I just never got around to admitting it. I drank purely for effect. But then, as far as I was concerned, wasn’t everyone doing the same thing? I started to realize something was wrong when I began to get beaten up. My mouth always got me into trouble, of course. I’d go up to the biggest guy in the place and look up his nostrils and call him a faggot. And then when he’d head-butt me, I’d say, “Call that a headbutt?” So the guy would do it again harder. The second time I’d have less to say. One of my “victims” stuck my head on an electric cooker ring. In Limerick. Stab City. I was lucky to get out of that house alive. He’d done it, though, because I’d been taking the pith out of hiths listhp. Maybe that’s why I moved on to girls. More sophisticated, doncha know. And girls wouldn’t beat me up. They’d just stare at me in disbelief and shock.
Their eyes, you see.
All the pretense and rules dissolved away. There was just the two of us and the pain. All those intimate moments, every little sigh, those gentle touches, the lovemaking, the confidences, the orgasms, the attempted orgasms-all mere fuel. The deeper in they were, the more beautiful they looked when the moment came.
And I lived for the moment. I was working freelance in advertising all through this period in London. As

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