I Am Going to Clone Myself, Then Kill the Clone and Eat It

I bought this book because of the title; the absurd, ego-inflated nihilism of the statement (plus being long but still catchy) made me LLOL. Just imagine, dumping millions of dollars into cutting edge super science, all for the sake of suicide(?) and self-cannibalism! Genius! Sam Pink’s genre-defying, 2007 debut, lives up to the humor of it’s title. It’s chock full of lines dripping with cynicism, loneliness and raw emotion. It’s a lot of fun to read, then re-read when you’re feeling shitty later. Hopefully the reading makes you feel less empty inside, but it probably won’t.

Pink writes in a plain speech minimalism to articulate the omnipresent loneliness of the 21st century. The writing accomplishes this this through a mix of story sketches, dialogues, lists, story variations, and something resembling prose-poetry. It’s not verse-y sounding text blocks, but more terse and depressing sentences. Most lines are one sentence, with space between each one, forcing you to reflect on Pink’s negativity. For example, “And if you don’t hate yourself, no one will” or “Lie down; it’s time for me to walk over you and call you a bridge I no longer need” or “The revenge of the earth is reproduction.” or “If I ever decide to shoot myself, I’ll make sure to stuff my mouth with confetti , so it looks pretty for no one.” Kind of a bummer, but also kind of chipper, it feels like a homeless man walking around Chicago in the winter carrying a broken rake. But it doesn’t feel like that much at all really.

The book’s first page says these writings were from 2007-2009. I suspect some of the stories were self-published in small zines. Most stories reads like a quick, sad-humor piece. Stories like An Incomplete List of the Things I’d Like to Be Reincarnated As show how it’s hard to classify exactly what kind of writing Pink writes. The list calls images of thought “A band-aid with a little bit of blood on it and the blood has become brown from being old...An eyelash of yours that falls to the sidewalk then blows into a discarded aluminum can...A dog that doesn’t worry about anything and just eats garbage all day (and also maybe fucks some other homeless dogs too because eating garbage would suck).” But by foregoing conventional genre, it’s easier to read Pink’s writing on it’s own terms. It’s hard to compare it to other things.

Pink fixates on three topics: boredom, violence, and constant societal judgement. Perhaps boredom is the most acute; Pink writes, “I know different methods of self-destruction but none as intense as sitting still by myself.” Going to the grocery store, is always depressing because it’s always boring. You always buy the same food and always expose your genitals to same employees, offering them $50 to cut your head off with an axe. Nothing ever happens. There is no plot. There is no point. You forgot the beginning and the end’s almost here. Just buy your fruit and get out.

The gratuitous mayhem of cartoons and video games are etched onto the core of Pink’s psyche; any thought is liable to come out at any moment--including murder. What what readers might notice first when reading this book are the schizo-style violence that creeps in every story. Maybe it’s for humor, or pathos or some other feeling I’m too numb to pick up on. The story, What I Am Thinking Right Now is just,  “I wonder if the man in front of me in line at the post office has any clue that I have been considering how many times I would have to stab the back of his skull with my pen, to break through and see his brain” and is exemplary of the violence. I often think about this stuff but rarely tell anyone because I don’t want to go to jail. Pink even goes so far as to hope readers kill themselves after reading his book. Pink’s brain is naked on the page and sometimes it’s kind of mean or gross--but that’s ok because I’m mean and gross too and so are you.

I assume Pink feels intense social anxiety when writing lines like, “I have been an embarrassment to everyone I’ve met and I will embarrass my enemies” or “I think that anyone who likes me doesn’t know everything they need to know.” A constant source of pain for Pink is the inability to meaningfully connect to other people. Perhaps this really is the driving force of Pink’s writing, as his terse style almost begs the reader to connect to what he’s feeling. The loneliness in this book is immediately accessible. 

Help Me, converges all these ideas together in 81 words

“I would like to cut off the fingers from my right hand and replace them all with pinky fingers. I would wave the fingers and my hand would look like an underwater plant. I am willing to pay up to five hundred dollars to have this done by a relatively competent doctor or finger expert or even someone who knows what an underwater plant looks like, so they could be like, ‘Yes’ or ‘No, that doesn’t look like an underwater plant.’”

Sitting around and looking at your hand, imaging gruesome destruction, and being judged by a doctor for not having a freak-hand that looks enough like a sea plant. It’s pretty weird, but it connects with a feeling I feel all the time, usually when I’m scrolling up and down my Facebook feed or checking my email. 

Pink’s book isn’t overwhelmingly sad; in fact, intense cynicism is quite delightful in small doses. Sometimes the writing is really dark, sometimes it’s funny dark, and even sometimes it’s kind of hopeful. Every sentence is like a new moment in time, each moment defined by its own context of feeling--or something...I don’t know. It’s like watching a bug die slowly when you’re the person who stepped on it and you could step on it again but choose not to just so you can watch it die slowly. 

I like this book very much and highly recommend you read it.