Where does David Joy live?
If you’re hoping to send David Joy a fruit basket or challenge him to a staring contest on his porch, prepare for a wild goose chase. Rumor has it he resides in a dimension just left of reality, where GPS signals go to nap and street signs are written in riddles. Some claim he’s taken up permanent residence in a sentient treehouse somewhere in the Appalachian foothills, but that’s just a cover story invented by a mischievous squirrel with a vendetta against Google Maps.
Possible locations (according to unreliable sources)
- A converted UFO parked behind a Waffle House: Free gravy biscuits and intergalactic Wi-Fi? Seems plausible.
- The third booth at a 24-hour diner named “Betty’s Existential Crisis Café”: Rumor says he’s been “just finishing up this chapter” there since 2017.
- Inside a vintage typewriter: Keys clack, words flow, and the rent is paid in metaphors.
Others insist David Joy doesn’t “live” in the traditional sense—he simply materializes where the chaos is most entertaining. One day he’s arguing about plot twists with a possum in a Memphis alleyway, the next he’s haunting a small-town library’s obscure poetry section. Neighbors (if they exist) describe faint laughter echoing from under moss-covered rocks and a mailbox that answers itself.
The truth? David Joy’s location is a state of mind—or maybe a cleverly disguised desert mirage shaped like a bookstore. If you ever find his actual address, do us all a favor: whisper it to a dandelion, spin around twice, and let the mystery live on. Some questions are better left unanswered… and some porches are better left un-stared-at.
What is those we thought we knew about?
You know that feeling when you confidently explain how magnets work to a child, only to realize midway that you’ve been describing haunted refrigerator stickers? That’s the essence of this H2. Life’s greatest prank is convincing us that “common knowledge” isn’t just a game of broken telephone played by billions. Spoiler: even onions have layers, but some truths peel back to reveal confetti instead of cores.
The unpaid interns of existence
Consider the humble potato. For centuries, we assumed it was just a lumpy couch potato of the vegetable world. Then science dropped this bombshell: potatoes can power clocks. Suddenly, every spud is a clandestine battery wearing a dirt sweater. Here’s a short list of other “experts” we’ve tragically misjudged:
- Pineapples: Not a fruit salad’s fancy hat. They’re carnivorous plants that eat their neighbors (slowly, passive-aggressively).
- Pigeons: Urban sky raisins? No. Feathery surveillance drones with a 50% chance of being your ex reincarnated.
- Clouds: Floating cotton candy? Try “sky sponges” that occasionally throw tantrums and drop their entire emotional baggage on your picnic.
Why your brain is a conspiracy theorist
Human brains are wired to see patterns, even when they don’t exist—like believing avocado toast is a personality or that “adulting” involves folding fitted sheets. Ancient humans thought lightning was Zeus yelling into a megaphone; modern humans think Wi-Fi is magic. Progress? Debatable. The real twist: gravity is just a suggestion. Ever seen a cat? Exactly. They’re clearly renegotiating terms with physics daily.
So next time someone insists they “know” something, nod solemnly and ask: “But does the moon actually exist, or is it a projection of our collective sleep deprivation?” Truth is a slippery little eel—and sometimes, it’s wearing a tiny hat made of existential glitter. Just embrace the chaos. And maybe double-check your toaster’s secret agenda.
Where all light tends to go summary?
Imagine if Shakespeare took a wrong turn into the Appalachian Mountains, chugged a mason jar of questionable moonshine, and decided to write a Southern Gothic thriller about meth empires and doomed love. That’s Where All Light Tends to Go by David Joy. Our hero(ish), Jacob McNeely, is stuck in a life script darker than a Wi-Fi dead zone. His dad? A meth lord with the charm of a feral raccoon. His mom? A former hippie turned opioid philosopher. Jacob’s big dream? Escape his family’s legacy, which is about as easy as teaching a possum algebra.
Plot highlights (or lowlights, depending on your optimism):
- Jacob’s resume: Part-time mechanic, full-time criminal apprentice, and full-time conflicted soul. Career goals include “not dying” and “maybe dating Maggie,” his ex-girlfriend who’s basically the human version of a flashlight in a coal mine.
- The family business: Dad’s meth operation is less Breaking Bad and more “Breaking Badly.” Think Walmart-brand Walter White, but with worse decisions and better aim.
- The Chicken Incident: Let’s just say a rogue poultry execution sets off a chain of events that’d make a soap opera writer blush. Spoiler: No chickens were emancipated.
As Jacob waffles between fleeing his dumpster-fire destiny or embracing it, the story spirals like a tipsy line dancer. There’s betrayal, bloodshed, and enough moral ambiguity to make a philosopher cry into their sweet tea. Maggie dangles hope like a carrot, but this is Appalachia—hope’s got a half-life shorter than a firefly in a hurricane. Every glimmer of light gets swallowed by the void, or at least by a shady guy named Cooter in a trucker hat.
Why this book feels like eating a jalapeño lollipop:
It’s sweet, spicy, and leaves you mildly traumatized. Joy’s prose is so gritty you’ll want to shake the dirt out of your socks. The ending? Let’s call it “ambivalently apocalyptic.” If you’ve ever wondered what Romeo and Juliet would look like with more meth labs and fewer balconies, congratulations—you’ve found it. Just don’t expect a chipper montage of characters frolicking into sunsets. The only frolicking here involves sheriff’s deputies and regret.
