Diary of an Oxygen Thief

Diary of an Oxygen Thief

by Anonymous

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Overview

Diary of an Oxygen Thief by Anonymous

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.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781501157851
Publisher: Gallery Books
Publication date: 06/14/2016
Series: Oxygen Thief Diaries Series , #1
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 160
Sales rank: 129
Product dimensions: 5.20(w) x 7.70(h) x 0.60(d)

About the Author

Anonymous is the New York Times bestselling author of Diary of an Oxygen Thief.

Read an Excerpt

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 an art director. A contradiction in terms if ever there was one. It's what I still do today. Strangely, I
was always able to get money. Even in art school, I got a grant because my dad had just retired and I suddenly became eligible. And after that I got job after job without too much trouble.
I never looked like a drunk, I just was one, and anyway in those days advertising was a far more boozy affair than it is today. Because I was freelance, I could be my own man, so to speak, and I would keep myself busy by ensuring I had dates lined up. None of the girls were supposed to know this. The idea was to have an impressive queue so that when one girl neared maturity-usually after about three or four dates with some phone calls in between-another would be introduced. Then as one went onto the scrap heap, a new one would take her place. Nothing unusual about my method, everyone did it. But I enjoyed it so much. Not the sex or even the conquest, but the causing of pain.
It was after my crazy night with Pen (more on that in a minute) that I realized I had found my niche in life. Somehow I was able to lure these creatures into my lair. Half the time I was trying to push them away, but it had just the opposite effect. And the fact that they were attracted to a piece of shit like me made me hate them even more than if
they'd laughed in my face and walked away. As for looks? I'm nothing special, but I'm told I have beautiful eyes. Eyes from which nothing but truth could possibly seep.
They say the sea is actually black and that it merely reflects the blue sky above. So it was with me. I allowed you to admire yourself in my eyes. I provided a service. I listened
and listened and listened. You stored yourself in me.
Nothing had ever felt so right to me. If I'm honest, even today I miss hurting. I'm not cured of it, but I don't set out to systematically dismantle like I used to. I don't miss the booze half as much. Oh, to hurt again. Since those heady days I heard an adage that seems to apply here: "Hurt people hurt people."
I see now that I was in pain and wanted others to feel it, too. This was my way of communicating. I'd meet the women the first night and get the obligatory phone number and then after another couple of days, making them sweat a little, I'd call and be all nervous. They loved that. I'd ask them out and pretend I hardly ever did "this kind of thing" and say that I hadn't been out a lot in London because I didn't really know the scene. This was true, though, because all I used to do was get out of my head in local bars around Camberwell.
We'd agree to meet somewhere. I liked Greenwich, with the river and the boats and of course the pubs. And it had a great boyfriend/girlfriend feel. Nice and respectable. I'd be half out of it before we even met, but I'd be witty and charming and boyish and shaking. Trying to put me at ease, they'd smile and comment on my trembling, thinking I was nervous to create a good impression. Because I wasn't getting in enough booze, my very being would shudder. I'd have to order two large Jamesons at the counter for her every half lager. I'd down the Jimmys without her seeing and then on with the show.
Lovely.
I didn't really care if I got them into bed or not. I just wanted some company while I got pissed, while I waited for the courage to hurt to well up in me. And they seemed pleased because I wasn't trying to grope them. Sometimes I would. But mostly I'd be fairly well behaved. This would go on for a few dates. In the meantime I would encourage them to tell me about themselves.
This is very important for the successful moment later. The more they confided and invested in you, the deeper the shock and the more satisfying the moment at the end. So, I'd be told of their dog's habits, their teddy bear's names, their father's moods, their mother's fears. Did I like kids? How many brothers and sisters did I have? A sitcom I had to sit through. But it was okay, because I knew I'd be writing her out of the series.
She'd talk and talk and talk, and I'd nod. Raise a strategic eyebrow. Grimace when necessary. Guffaw or feign shock, whatever was required. I'd watch people in conversation and record their facial expressions. Interest: Raise one eyebrow and raise or lower the other depending on the conversation.
Attraction: Try to blush. Not easy, this (thoughts of what I was going to do to her later helped). And a blush usually begot a blush. That is, if I could muster a blush, she was more than likely to blush back. Sympathy: Crinkle the forehead and nod gently. Charmed: Cock your head to one side and smile apologetically. I'd supply these prefab masks on cue. It was easy. It was enjoyable. Guys did it all the time to get laid. I did it to get even. Unkind to Womankind. That was my mission. Around this time I discovered the meaning of the word "misogynist." I remember thinking it hilarious that it had "Miss" as a prefix.
All I know is, I felt better when I saw someone else in pain. But of course they would often hide how much I had hurt them. Yes, it was a challenge in itself to help her externalize her feelings, but also bloody frustrating to have gone to all that trouble and then not be able to enjoy a dramatic playback. That's why it became necessary to condense everything into the one demonstrative moment.
Sophie was from South London. She used to do the wardrobe for Angus Brady on the comedy show Aren't You Glad to See Me? I met her at a Camberwell College of Arts party that I had crashed. After her, there was that designer girl-whose name I honestly can't remember-who I'm sure I hurt very deeply because she never called me back. Funny that, because even though I never met her again or even heard her say another word, I knew she had it bad.
How do I know?
I know.
There was Jenny. She was the one who threw the beer in my face. I was thrilled to have had a hand in causing so much rage.
Then came Emily. But she doesn't really count because she was as good if not better at whatever this is than I was. I kind of fell for her. Laura was somewhere in there. An ex- band publicist with a superb arse that had survived a young daughter. I woke up one morning and there was an eight-year-old girl watching as I tried to extricate myself from the freckled tentacles of her comatose mother. And then after she guilted me into walking her to school, I got the feeling that mother and daughter made full use of the men that passed through their lives. Like the Native American and the Buffalo, The Eskimo and the Seal, The Welfare Mother and Me.
And the one who started it all.
Penelope Arlington. I'd been going out with her for four and a half years. Long time. She'd been nice to me. Nicer to me than any other girl had ever been. When I spoke, she turned her head toward me and seemed to abandon herself to the meaning of my words. I liked that. It was only much later that I found out she was terrible in bed. At the time I thought she was wanton. She wasn't. But she's the one I regret hurting the most. Why? Because she didn't deserve it. Not that the others did, but she wouldn't have left me if I hadn't ripped her apart. And I needed her to leave me because she was getting in the way of my drinking.
And one night I just cracked up. It'd been bubbling for ages. Simmer, simmer, bubble, stew . . . gurgle. I got completely fizzingly drunk and this whole chain of events began to rattle. Why would anyone set out to break the heart of someone he loved? Why would anyone intentionally cause that kind of pain?
Why did people kill each other?
Because they enjoyed it. Was it really that simple? To achieve a soul-shattering, it is better if the perpetrator has been through the same experience. Hurt people hurt people more skillfully. An expert heartbreaker knows the effect of each incision. The blade slips in barely noticed, the pain and the apology delivered at the same time.

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Diary Of An Oxygen Thief 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 22 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Rambles, needs to check his facts about places, and in general needs a story. I feel like the victim of his measly 100 page book--fooled into thinking this would be good read. I'm baffled how others gave this story such high ranks. Wish I could get my money back. This prooves to me they'll pubish anything. My advice to others is don't waste your time or money on this one.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It was great at the beginning but got really boring towards the end
LivTammy More than 1 year ago
Diary of an Oxygen Thief is an autobiography about an Irish narcissist and his attempts at relationships and life in America. The author tells in detail that he used to get intense pleasure from abusing women emotionally. He never abuses women physically, but destroys them mentally in an attempt to “capture their souls”. He does this by dating women and then breaking up with them right when they fall in love with him. Though the character is telling this story after changing his ways, a change that came about from his own “soul” being stolen by a woman, he recalls his past in vivid detail. The anonymous author is incoherent, patronizing, and cunning. Before he began abusing women emotionally, he used to pick fights with the biggest men in bars, even when he knew he could not possibly win. To change the balance of the abuser/abused relationship, he then began dating women with the sole purpose of breaking up with them for the thrill of it. The main idea to get from this book is one that we learned long ago in our elementary school days; two wrongs do not make a right. The unexplainable things the author put himself through in bars somehow made it okay for him to take this pain out on other women. With this book being an autobiography, we know that all of these events really happened, no matter how hard to believe they seem. The amount of women hurt by this man is unbelievable. It is clear that he did not learn the “two wrongs” lesson. Though the author was sometimes off topic and childish, it was a very well written book. The words the author chose to use really dragged you in and kept you wanting to read on. He also uses vivid details. However, the author rambles on forever. It took the author 138 pages to get to the big, life-changing moment that he is leading up to and making a big deal out of, and there were 150 pages total in the book. He describes this “life-changing moment”, that probably happened in a 5-minute span, in 12 pages. It took him too long to tell his captivating stories. I would recommend this book to anyone who is not sensitive to foul language and is willing to look into a new perspective on life that will possibly shock you forever.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Very good read. Enjoyed every second. The book draws you in from the sample, it's very, very hard to put this book down once you pick it up. Read the sample for the second one and I'm ready to buy that one now
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Hello Good one!!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Reason as to why I gave this book 5 stars was because the book itself composes a structure that not many big time authors have acquired. The language used in this book is very strong and can affect a very sensitive audience , this is what makes this book so magnificent. Besides the fact that as a New Yorker I understand and can relate to some of the things that are being narrated I feel like this book will get you arguing with yourself. This book will make you want to be like the author or even make you visualize yourself in these situations. Despite the tiny mistakes made, I applaud the author of this book for having the courage on doing their first debut as author without an editor.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I truly appreciated this book. The main reason I give it 3 stars was because of missteps that an author ought to have gotten. However, it was independently published with the goal that's amazing in itself. As the creator planned, I felt just as I was spying on somebody's private session of spilling their guts. The reality the creator remains completely unknown improves it to such an extent. As I was understanding, I needed to recognize what the storyteller resembled, it made the story more inventive as the peruser. I'd describe this book as crude, unrefined, legitimate. The book holds substance to the standard of perception to truly understand some of the self inflicted pain and questioning.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I really enjoyed this book. The only reason I give it 4 stars was due to mistakes that an editor should have picked up. Though, it was self published so that's impressive in itself. As the author intended, I felt as though I was eavesdropping on someone's private session of spilling their guts. The fact the the author remains entirely anonymous makes it so much better. As I was reading, I wanted to know what the narrator looked like, but since I couldn't base my image of him off of what the author looks like, it made the story more imaginative as the reader. I'd discribe this book as raw, raunchy, honest and interesting. It doesn't say anything that you haven't thought before, in terms of raunchiness. I highly recommend if you're looking for a contemporary read.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
shows the viewpoint of the guy in a heartbreak... often forgotten
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Wonderful
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Just started reading this book last night and I am half way done, it's so honest and it is what we really do to one another in real life. so beautiful.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is probably the most interesting book ever!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Beginning was interesting ending wasnt
James Straus More than 1 year ago
Made Man meets fights in a stunning display of brutal honesty and eloquent charm!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Can't wait to get the full book. The sample was great and very interesting!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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