Last year I discovered London Preppy’s blog. Naturally I was three, four years too late to ingest it as it was created. But I was obsessed with it and started from the first post and made my way chronologically forward.
It had the perfect mix of cynicism, nihilism, self-obsession and humor that is everything I strive for. All of this was wrapped in a hot body and the ubiquitous red bars covering the eyes on the photos that gave the hint of anonymity that was intriguing.
Reading through the blog it was clear that it was either fiction or that the details were fictionalized. But it didn’t matter because it was so well written.
What else do you do but hate him?
So he wrote a novel Exit through the Wound, and fucking hell it’s good. It was so good I was compelled to write a stupid Amazon review:
I hate North Morgan. London Preppy. Whoever the hell he is. He crafted a wonderful piece of prose that embodies all aspects of the disembodied drones that go to work, come home, rinse, lather and repeat day after day. It’s a work trying to break away from the confines of disillusionment, cynicism, resignation and monotony while being absolutely hilarious.
What’s fascinating was how seamlessly the blog fit into a narrative form. Gone were the daily tracking of what outfits were worn. Gone were the text message dispatches from a night of clubbing. Some characters were moved around notably All American Girl who is now Sadie. But reading the string of words page after page, what made the blog an enjoyable read was still there.
So I hate him like I hate all good writers.
While reading the novel there were plenty of moments where I distinctly remember reading certain sections from the blog. But it didn’t feel stale or contrived in an attempt to fit it in a novel form. It just fit. It worked.
Like I hinted at in the Amazon review, the characters are different from the blog. Maine pines for Sadie whereas in the blog London Preppy and All-American Girl were co-conspirators at work. Perhaps that what made the recycling of blog posts refreshing, to see how it fit in a different context.
Reading the blog it is clear that there is a huge dose of Bret Easton Ellis in the work. However there is a tinge of humanity laced in the words that salvage it from being an abject wrist slitting work of depression.
Basically all I’m saying is that it’s a fucking good book to read.
Perhaps the most disappointing part about the novel has nothing to do with the novel. To promote the book, Mr. Preppy read excerpts of the book on YouTube eyes fully exposed. The enigma and intrigue of the London Preppy aura died just a little bit. But that’s my only complaint, a minor one at that.
I still hate him.