I'm Into, Oh Murders And Executions Mostly.

...there Is An Idea Of A Patrick Bateman, Some Kind Of Abstraction, But There Is No Real Me, Only An Entity, Something Illusory, And Though I Can Hide My Cold Gaze And You Can Shake My Hand And Feel Flesh Gripping Yours And Maybe You Can Even Sense Our Lifestyles Are Probably Comparable: I Simply Am Not There.

I Don't Want To Care. If I Care About Things, It'll Just Be Worse, It'll Just Be Another Thing To Worry About. It's Less Painful If I Don't Care.

He Was Simply Someone Who Floated Through Our Lives And Didn't Seem To Care How Flatly He Perceived Everyone Or That He'd Shared Our Secret Failures With The World, Showcasing The Youthful Indifference, The Gleaming Nihilism, Glamorizing The Horror Of It All.

But This Was What Happened When You Didn't Want To Visit And Confront The Past: The Past Starts Visiting And Confronting You.

There’s No Use In Denying It: This Has Been A Bad Week. I’ve Started Drinking My Own Urine.