Satire. I laughed at first. A bit too hard. Allowing myself to become Patrick Bateman himself. Enjoying dinners from six to ten, doing drugs, fucking girls and having possibly the most immaculate taste in clothes, skincare and rather tangible objects. A sweet life, with shallow people in it. Perfect. Absolute perfection. He's a man of taste. A man who is a perfectionist, a man who is a man. Cigars, cars, money, filthy rich money, dirty money. A flawless man, with flawless hair and flawless skin.
Shift. A volta. I don't know. A change in tone.
Absolute disgust. No more chapters about Huey Lewis and business cards and Fisher accounts. It's pure gore. Porn almost. Portrayed in such a raw and honest way, in such a filthy way, in such a psychopathic way which makes me want to throw up. It makes me gag. It makes me throw the book on the floor, physically, simply because of how beautifully it is crafted. My resentment of Bateman only increased from then on. I became bored of his life, I became bored of him, I became bored of his lifeless life.
It's a terrible book, disgusting, cyclical and rancid. I would give it a ten out of ten.
How could anyone admire Bateman? He is the epitome of filth, a capitalistic nation and entity and ultimately a fucking yuppie. The author builds this character with so much power, so much greed and so much beauty it is flabbergasting. I love it. I love it. I hate it. I believe that at the end of the day, Bateman is nothing but a pile of dust. Wanting to belong somewhere, but is too consumed by the blissful ignorance surrounding him. He is a hollow shell of a man.
It’s giving that one scene in American Psycho where Patrick Bateman does his skincare routine. Anyway, Happy #InternationalWomensDay . . . #photography #americanpsycho #patrickbateman #makeupartist #makeup #mua #vanity (at Los Angeles, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cpjp3-oOPPP/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=