People are always asking me if I know Tyler Durden. To tell the truth, I'm not even sure if Tyler is real. How can a person that transcends all elements that make a human, simply exist among us? No, there is no way Tyler can be real. Tyler is a concept, an idea, a revolution, the final frontier against material wealth obsession. In Tyler we trust; for Tyler we sacrifice.

So fight! Fight with your bare fists, gentlemen. Fight until your nasal bridge is where your eye sockets should be at, until your lips swell so big you have to constantly curl up your tongue to make room for air, until your skull is fractured so severely you can't remember the name or breasts size of your first high school crush. Smear your knuckles with blood, taste the sweat of your opponent. Your arms are nothing but a bunch of meat and bones meshed together if you don't treat it as an instrument of pain and death. Tyler had said that, in Tyler we trust.

Fight Club is where it all started, Fight Club is where it all ends. It will end simply because all things do. Even the Mona Lisa's falling apart. Lit a cigarette between your lips and the next thing you know you're licking ash off the roof of your mouth. I don't know, I don't smoke. But Tyler does. Tyler drinks, Tyler plays golf. Tyler involves himself in normal human routine, yet he's not human. He's a saint, a fallen angel! Tyler's wings are removed because they get in the way of his fights, his halo shrouded by the smoke he exhales out of his nostrils.

Ever have this intense urge to destroy something beautiful? Tyler lures that urge out of you and wraps it around your wrist like a ribbon. "Wear it proudly" he would say. Destroy something beautiful, kill the pandas that wouldn't screw to save its species, pour diesel fuel into the ocean. Tyler would gently place his lips on the back of our palms. Tyler's kiss -- the mark of the devil -- a contract to remind us who we are, what we do and what we do not do. Part of it's saliva, most of it's acid.

In Tyler we trust, everything he does serves a purpose. The feces he expels cleanse the sewers; the bruises he delivers baptize the soul. The Fight Clubs he starts serve as an awakening, for the people, masculine ones. The ones who think they're the manliest of men, the men who use shampoo and hair conditioners and facial wash that are made for men and men only. He drags them down to the bottom, to maggot level and show them just how pathetic they were. It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything. We are taught that no one is special, that everyone is the same decaying organic matter, born for the sole purpose of labor, to push and pull, follow orders; including the ones giving them. Everyone is a slave to another, if not ourselves. We are all such products. Tyler had blasted the truth through the speakers when we're busy digging our own graves -- Tyler's orders.

Listen to him, the man of wisdom, the Colonel Kurtz of our generation. God does not love us and neither does Tyler. If we're born to be loved then we're better off dead, because the only means for us to grow up is via hatred. Hate us, just like how we hate you. We hate our generation and the generation who raised us. We hate the lies they shove at us on television, we hate hairsprays and commercialized holidays. We hate movie stars and rock stars, the rest of our hatred we invest on the idea of becoming one of them. We hate rules set by the privileged, the black ties, know-it-alls. Someone else's name on their underpants. "Do not fuck with us!" threatened Tyler. The only rules we follow are Tyler's rules. In Tyler we trust.

First rule of Fight Club is: You do not talk about Fight Club.
Second rule of Fight Club is:" You DO NOT talk about Fight Club."
Third rule of Fight Club: Someone yells stop, goes limp, taps out, the fight is over.
Fourth rule: Only two guys to a fight.
Fifth rule: One fight at a time.
Sixth rule: No shirts, no shoes.
Seventh rule: Fight will go on as long as they have to.

And the eighth and final rule is,

"If this is your first night in Fight Club, you have to fight."

Of course you have to fight! We have to turn your cookie dough ass into wood, expose the copy of a copy of a copy you are, butt naked and screaming in pain. While stumbling around your own coffin with both hands on your dick, you chant: "Death is scary. Death is scary. Death is scary." Stop. Thinking. About. Death. It's only when you've lost everything that you're free to do anything. Paint a self-portrait. Build a house. Let Tyler take the wheel, or let Tyler not take the wheel. Just stop caring! That's your problem, you think you know everything. You think there's meaning to everything and every action when everything means fuck all.

Fight Club will cleanse you. Fight Club will be your salvation. Fight club only exists between the hour when Fight Club starts and when Fight Club ends. Fight Club may evolve into Project Mayhem, set new rules, develop a new structure, but Fight Club will still be Fight Club. There will still be blood stains on the floor after every Saturday night, the hysterical shouting will still go on. Tyler roams in the crowd, under the shadows, observing. Tyler observes us, guides us, teaches us. Removing our hands which had been subconsciously choking our windpipes all these time, restoring the red-pinkish hue on our oxygen-deficient cheeks, then punch the jaw and teeth off of us, paint bruises back on our faces, where they belong. Tyler scrubs our brains like how we would scrub our nails the day before Fight Club.

People are always asking me if I know Tyler Durden. The truth is, no one really knows him. Some say he comes from a mental institution, some say he sleeps only one hour per day. But all of those are not important. What matters is, Tyler exists. Tyler is here to lead us. In Tyler we trust.