I give up

I was reading Like Being Killed, a 1998 novel by Ellen Miller I saw mentioned someplace. I was impressed with the first 50 pages, which recount a fatal nighttime drug bachhanal, and the next hundred pages, which cover the time after, and leading up to, the opening scene, were intriguing. I liked the writer's quirks even if I found the increasingly depraved atmosphere of the book oppressive. But last night, a little more than halfway through the book, I suddenly decided I didn't want to spend any more time with these characters, and gave up.