McGlue by Ottessa Moshfegh

Self-destruction in itself is addictive, and often when addicts are urged to become sober they are reminded of the people they have hurt. This tactic is often only resorted to when the person in the depths of addiction has absolutely no interest in improving their own life, they essentially are suicidal. The logic is that while the addict doesn't give a shit about their own well-being, they care about others, and will help them. I've personally always hated this part of recovery because to become sober, to go through the horror of withdrawal all for another person and not even for your own benefit just seems cruel. The resentment that brews and the misery one stews in when getting sober for another person is torturous, and one that Moshfegh explores perfectly. 

Moshfegh's ability to write grossly is perfectly exemplified in this novella. I have seriously not come across a single author who can write lines as gross as she, and the craft in it doesn't even come from the content Moshfegh illustrates. Moshfegh takes the simple facts of the human body, a ship, drink, hatred, and even love, and communicates those concepts to the reader in a way that causes skin to crawl, hairs to raise. I have seen this ability to write grossly in Ellis's American Psycho, though that was when describing objectively disgusting murders and murderous rage,  which are, compared to Moshfegh's topics, much easier to write grossly about. This is not to discount another author's abilities but to highlight the skill and artistry that Moshfegh holds.