“Shoplifting from American Apparel” by Tao Lin [EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT]
I recently wrote a novel called 'Shoplifting from American Apparel.' Some websites have reviewed it, and some have even 'panned' it. This book is intended to break into alternative markets. The title is 'very marketable' which is why I selected HIPSTER RUNOFF as a place to run this 'exclusive' excerpt. I have been told that many musicians 'debut' mp3s on certain music blogs, so I wanted to 'do the same thing' except with a book. (Full Disclosure: Carles and I are childhood friends. We also recently recorded our band's debut EP.)
Please enjoy the excerpt. I hope it compels you to 'buy' my novel. I check my Amazon sales rank on an hourly basis.
Author of Shoplifting from American Apparel,
(Actually written by Carles.)
Please note: Carles does not endorse this product. Carles has not read this book. He only reads writings contained in web browsers. It is srsly the only way his brain can 'process' information.
EXCERPT From SFAA
Sam woke around 3:30 p.m. and saw no emails from Sheila. He made a smoothie. He lay on his bed and stared at his computer screen. He showered and put on clothes and opened the Microsoft Word file of his poetry. He looked at his email. About an hour later it was dark outside. Sam ate cereal with soymilk. He put things on eBay then tried to guess the password to Sheila’s email account, not thinking he would be successful, and not being successful. He did fifty jumping jacks. “God, I felt fucked lying on the bed,” he said to Luis a few hours later on Gmail chat. “I wanted to fall asleep immediately but that is impossible. I need to fall asleep. Any second now. Just fall down asleep.”
“I played video games,” said Luis. “Perfect Dark. I killed people for two hours then I got bored. I know what you mean by impossible.”
“This is fucked,” said Sam.
“You know those people that get up every day, and do things,” said Luis.
“I’m going to eat cereal even though I’m not hungry,” said Sam.
“And are real proactive,” said Luis. “And like are getting things done, and never quit their jobs. Those people suck.”
“We get shit done too,” said Sam. “Look at our books.”
“I know, but that brings in no money,” said Luis. “Are we, like, that word ‘bohemians.’ Or something. Our bios: ‘They lived in poverty writing their masterpieces.’”
“We are the fucked generation,” said Sam. “Someone release the press release announcing this. Look at that typo.”
The word “announcing” was almost twice as long as normal.
“I’m laughing,” said Luis. “That is a good typo.”
“How do we get out of this,” said Sam.
“Their shoes were shit, they couldn’t afford haircuts, they were stealing to stay alive, living off of strippers to create their art, but they believed that if they could write it something would happen,” said Luis.
“Who are they,” said Sam.
“They is us,” said Luis.
“I’m alone,” said Sam. “What would happen if I started sniffing coke.”
“You would kill yourself in a panic attack.”
“Are you sure,” said Sam.
“You will be on coke trying to steal batteries and your mind won’t be working properly and you will fuck up and someone will catch you and then you will go to jail.”
“Oh yeah,” said Sam. “I don’t have to worry about money anymore, I just steal batteries.”
“Do people really buy batteries off eBay,” said Luis.
“Yes. I have undercut the competition. Walmart is crying.”
“I’m going to watch cartoon porn,” said Luis. “No I’m not. I'm going to look at Indian women. Have you ever fucked an Indian girl.”
“No,” said Sam. “Native American or Indian.”
“You are awesome,” said Luis. “Is her picture online.”
“I’m confused,” said Sam. “What are you talking about.”
“How did you meet her,” said Luis.
“No, I haven’t,” said Sam. “You’re confused.”
“What are you talking about,” said Luis.
“I haven’t had sex with one,” said Sam.
“Okay,” said Luis. “What are you talking about.”
“Luis,” said Sam. “What is happening. It’s Saturday.”
“I think we are going insane,” said Luis. “From not being around people. We are starting to go inside ourselves, and play around inside of our own mental illness. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“What should I eat,” said Sam. “I have two choices. Cereal or peanut butter bagel.”
“Cereal,” said Luis.
“I wanted the bagel. I’m eating the bagel, I don’t know why I asked.”
“Sheila didn’t let you go over for leftovers,” said Luis.
“No,” said Sam. “I mean, we just didn’t talk or something.”
“Are you serious. Is everything okay.”
“I don’t know,” said Sam. “I woke up at 3:30.”
“I won’t go to sleep until five in the morning,” said Luis. “We are fucked.”
“I woke at 10:30 then said ‘this is fucked’ and went back to sleep,” said Sam. “I forced myself back to sleep.”
“Sheila won’t talk to you,” said Luis. “Or is it because your cell phone broke.”
“No,” said Sam. “We just didn’t talk since yesterday. We are like fighting or something. Or I just didn’t email her or something.”
“When Marissa and I fight we lay on our sides for an hour in different rooms and wait for the person that was mean to come into the room and say they are sorry, then we existentially attack each other in very quiet voices,” said Luis.
“That sounds great,” said Sam. “It’s only 11 p.m. What are we going to do for six hours.”
“Do you sometimes look up from the computer and look around the room and now you are alone, I mean really know it, then feel scared,” said Luis.
“Yes,” said Sam. “I really do that.”
“Should we kill ourselves now or start crying or punch ourselves in the nuts,” said Luis.
“What is wrong with us,” said Sam. “Should I email Sheila. Or wait until she emails me. I have no car, phone, bike. I’m going to add more people on MySpace.”
“We are so weird,” said Luis. “We met online a year ago. And we are up a year later being weird as shit.”
“One year,” said Sam. “This is weird.”
“I feel like my chest is going to explode,” said Luis.
“I’m adding random people on MySpace,” said Sam.
“I feel weird,” said Luis. “Like I was molested by my uncle or something. You are on the floor. With the blanket around you.”
“The blanket is over my head,” said Sam.
“Are we fucked,” said Luis and got off the internet.
Sam stared at his computer screen. He lay on his bed. It was November. Sam was in a rural area of Pennsylvania. He had moved here from New York City a few months ago to be near Sheila. He rolled off his bed and looked at his computer screen. Luis was back. “I just laid down and tried to cry,” said Sam. “I made a noise.”
“My computer took a shit for a second,” said Luis.
“I can’t think,” said Sam. “I’m going to do push-ups. What if Sheila and I break up. I’d be so fucked.”
“You still like each other right.”
“Yeah,” said Sam. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t know what to do,” said Luis. “Do you wake up most days and your first thoughts are of literature, you go to sleep thinking about literature.”
“Yes,” said Sam. “That is all I think about. If I’m having a shitty time with Sheila’s mom I think about writing it in my novel later. I think about that the same time it’s happening.”
“When I’m talking to someone I think ‘can I use this dialogue in a book,’” said Luis. “If the answer is no I try talking to someone else.”
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