Get ready for one of the most self-indulgent memoirs of 2019.

Moby has written a follow-up to his 2016 memoir, Porcelain.

This one is called Then It Fell Apart and it covers his “lost decade”. The publishers are describing it as a “globe-spanning morality tale”.

No one except diehard Moby fans would have noticed it if it hadn’t made headlines earlier this week, after Natalie Portman disputed his account of their relationship.

Whether or not Moby imagined this chapter in his history, it remains one of the happier ones that he recounts. The rest of the book is mostly self-loathing and giddying highs, suicidal lows, and pages of self-described degeneracy, reports The Guardian.

Lovely. Let’s get a look at some of the highlights.

The time Moby thought about a prostitute at Kings Cross Station:

Moby plays a crap gig in 1999 to a nearly empty stadium, and is feeling sorry for himself because nobody wants to have sex with him.

“How badly was I failing as a musician that I couldn’t even find someone to flirt with at my own party?”

Leaving the party, he sees a sex worker standing at a bus stop, whom he describes for several sentences before clarifying that, though he has dated “a variety” of sex workers, he has “never paid money for sex”. Standing in the rain at 1am, he wonders if that changes now.

He imagines falling in love with the sex worker after discussing their “mutual brokenness”.

Moby, you creep. You probably terrified the woman.

The time someone had sex with Moby just to shut him up:

Moby plays a small concert near the Moulin Rouge in Paris. Afterwards, he meets a “beautiful elf” named Mandy.

…he and Mandy catch a cab to her apartment building near the Arc de Triomphe. “As we drove, I told Mandy the strange history of the Egyptian obelisk near the Tuileries Garden. She listened and nodded, but seemed bored.”

At her apartment, he tries to engage her in conversation about new-wave radio stations in New York, “trying to get to know the person I was probably going to have sex with”, but the mood is disrupted by her nervous chihuahua, George. “I wanted to tell her about my deceased grandmother’s dachshund, also named George, but Mandy started kissing me … we took off our clothes and had sex on the damp, wine-stained sheets, while her dog paced and whined around us. After sex, we passed out.”

Why were the sheets damp? Why was there wine on them? Why would you bring up your dead grandmother?

The time Moby made a sandwich:

Moby is on holiday and decides to make a sandwich.

“I didn’t have a knife, so I used the subscription card from a copy of In Minneapolis magazine to spread mustard on two pieces of bread. I put my tofu pups and bread on a hand towel, and ate them while watching an old episode of The Simpsons, and drinking day-old carrot juice.”

Nobody cares about your sandwich, Moby.

The time Moby name-dropped after sex:

Moby sells a lot of records and finds it easier and easier to get people to sleep with him.

“To keep myself from feeling creepy and ethically compromised, I told myself I was looking for love,” but his panic attacks keep him from pursuing relationships.

Luckily for Moby, a woman named Becks is charitable enough to spend the night with him.

“We spent the next few hours having sex and looking into each other’s eyes, and by the time we were done, it was late and most of the people at the party had left. Someone in the living room put on London Calling, but Joe Strummer, who apparently was still there, yelled: ‘Oh, fuck no!’”

After some cocaine, Moby attempts pillow talk.

‘Can I tell you something?’ I asked.

‘Please,’ she said sleepily.

‘David Bowie’s my neighbour.’”

Ugh, that’s enough.

If you want more creepy Moby, you can read the book.

[source:guardian]