Bret Easton Ellis

American Psycho

Emma Kim

Während sie fort war, kotzte ich - einfach nur so - in die rustikalen Terrakotta-Schalen, die den Patio säumten, oder ich fuhr mit dem schaurigen Masseur in die Stadt und holte Rasierklingen. Nachts stülpte ich Evelyn einen Lampenschirm aus Betonimitat und Aluminiumdraht von Jerry Kott auf den Kopf, und weil sie so mit Halcion zugeknallt war, schob sie ihn auch nicht weg, und obwohl ich darüber lachte, wenn der Lampenschirm sich mit jedemn ihrer schweren Atemzüge hob und senkte, machte es mich bald traurig, und ich hörte auf, den Lampenschirm über Evelyns Kopf zu stülpen. Nichts schaffte mir Erleichterung. Bald wurde alles schal: noch ein Sonnenaufgang, Heldenleben, große Liebe, Krieg, Entdeckungen, die Menschen übereinander machen. 

Luoyi

Christ sakes —— you can get dyslexia from pussy ——

why is he…. kinda funny??? but he’s a psychopath …??

I make myself another drink. I worry about the sodium levels in the soy sauce. 

it rlly isn’t that serious it’s just a business card 

I don’t see how he can ignore its subtle off-white coloring, its tasteful thickness. I am unexpectedly depressed that I started this.

murder attempt gone wrong i almost laughed out loud 

he lowers his head and … kisses my left wrist, and when he looks back up at me, shyly, it’s with an expression that’s … loving

above the building like a backdrop is a moonless sky, which earlier, in the afternoon, was hung with clouds but tonight isn’t.

hessensitive

“I wanted to come over,” she says in a whiny, little-girl tone. “I was scared. I still am. Can’t you hear it in my voice?”

“Actually, you sound like anything but,”

“No, Patrick, seriously, I’m quite terrified,” she says. “I’m shaking. Just like a leaf I’m shaking. Ask Mia, my facialist. She said I was tense.” 

Facial at Elizabeth Arden, buying kitchen utensils at the Pottery Barn (all of this, by the way, on lithium) before coming down to Harry’s where we had drinks with Charles Murphy and Rusty Webster, and where Courtney forgot the bag of Pottery Barn utensils she’d put underneath our table. 

…, but I’m still longing for something deeper, something undefined to do beforehand, and I start to stalk the dark, cold streets off Central Park West and I catch sight of my face reflected in the tinted windows of a limousine that’s parked in front of Cafe de Artistes and my mouth is moving involuntarily, my tongue wetter than usual, and my eyes are blinking uncontrollably of their own accord. In the street lamps glare, my shadow is vividly cast on the wet pavement and I can see my gloved hands moving, alternately clutching themselves into fists, fingers stretching, wriggling, and I have to stop myself in the middle of Sixty-seventh Street to calm myself down, whisper soothing thoughts, anticipating D’Agostino’s, a reservation at Dorsia, the new Mike and the Mechanics CD, and it takes an awesome amount of strength to fight down the urge to start slapping myself in the face.  

Some kind of existential chasm opens before me while I’m browsing Bloomingdale’s and causes me to first locate a phone and check my messages, then, near tears, after taking three Halcion (since my body has mutated and adapted to the drug it no longer causes sleep- it just seems to ward off total madness), I head toward the Clinique counter where with my platinum American Express card I buy six tubes of shaving cream while flirting nervously with the girls who work there and I decide this emptiness, has, at least in part, some connection with the way I treated Evelyn at Barcadia the other night, though there is always the possibility… 

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