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Diary by Chuck Palahniuk. This. Fucking. Book. Is. Shit. I am having a hard time finding the fitting words to say about this. To write a something like "This is Fucking Great!" or "This book is GOOD!" or even "This book is perfect!" to do so is going to be a crime. Even giving five stars wouldn't be enough. I would even say that this is even better than Fight Club. A dark gripping tale of an artist doomed because of her oozing lava of talents. Misty Kleinman Wilmot, you are cursed with that gift that you have for—eternity. As a girl, being raised by a hippie mother, Misty never experienced what world is like outside the trailer park in Tecumseh Lake. That dream of being an artist is what Misty was living for. She weny to art school. In there, she met Peter Wilmot. The biggest mistake of all the mistakes she ever made in her life. Poor Misty. Gifted. Cursed. Inspiring. Peter Wilmot was on a mission to find that woman cursed with talent that will provide salvation to Waytansea Island. Yes, he was successful. The name "Misty Kleinman" was hyphenated with Wilmot. He soon tried to get Misty to Waytansea Island—the island populated with lunatics. The island trapped with traditions. In order to get Misty to the Island, he impregnated her. Tabbi Wilmot was the result, and Misty staying in the island. I meant trapped. Better word—wrapped. Being promised that her dreams of being an artist would be made into reality, she lived in that island as a waitress at a hotel the Wilmots owned. A mother. A queen of fucking slaves. For some reason, Peter attempted to kill himself. He failed. Peter had become a living dead in the hospital. A vegetable waiting to rot—was slow rotting. Then, together with Grace Wilmot, Misty raised Tabii. Suffering. Suffering. Suffering. A daily overdose of it brings her talent back from the dead. The sleeping volcano exploded. She started to paint like a schizophrenic overdosed with talents. With her eyes closed and Tabbi as her inspiration, she painted masterpieces of art that were known to be impossible. Misty had lost everything. Now, Tabbi and that dream of being an artist were the only things left for her—what was left for her to do. And oblivious to almost everything, what awaited Misty was a conspiracy that happens every four generations that would kill hundreds of people. An event that would make the island filthy rich for generations at a price of hundreds of lives. Misty Kleinman Wilmot. A queen of fucking slaves. A hostage who was destined to save the island from running out of money for the next four generations. A tool to use. The island that trapped itself with its own cycle. Once you are born, you're already doomed to fulfill your fate. You're doomed at being you. How can not being you and being you be curse at the same time? ... Life perhaps is... A cursed gift. A fucked-up life is the main reason why we great art ever existed. How stupid would be a painting of two unicorns kissing each other compared to a painting of a sky burning like hell with angels crying and screaming from wounds inflicted by demons, winged beings falling down from the great red sky. How stupid would that be if you call Justin Beiber's songs “Art.” Ok. Ok. I'll stop making fun of her. Suffering ... is the key in creating exceptional art. What hurts us the most awakes the artist inside of us. Brings out the genius out of our brains, out of our souls. Scars and wounds are the best source inspiration. You art shows your wounds your scars your life—it shows everything about you. Art and Suffering—they're almost synonymous. Do you know that the best artists are not the finest and perfect human beings? Chuck Palahniuk's Angsty Nihilistic Existential Voice was never this loud. Cynical and in some sense, optimistic. The plot build-up flares with excitement and disgust. Not to mention that this book has the best plot twists ever. Whoever the narrator was (probably it's Misty), it still continues to be a puzzle. Which is one the things I liked best about this novel. One of the best reads I ever had. To not read this would be a crime against yourself. You don't know what you're missing. And just for the record, you've already missed enough things in your life.