Scenes from the book that should have been in the movie

Scenes from the book that should have been in the movie.

>When he dips a urinal cake in chocolate and serves it to his fiance as a dessert and she eats half of it because she doesn't want to be rude.

That was not in the book

it literally was

>he hasnt actually read american psycho
>he only knows about it from memes on a chinese cartoon image board

I remember he had vaginas in his gym locker. It has been a while since I read it admittedly. I'm not in a hurry to read it again.

>when patrick spends hours playing phone tag trying to figure out what restaurant to eat at with his friend and fiance and decides to give up after its been like 3 hours and they cant decide

>Scene where he forces a starving rat to crawl into a woman's vagina and eat its way out.

it felt like it came close to ending and then theres like another 50 pages to read.

>the chapters that were literally just him reviewing albums

cutting a child's throat at the zoo, then pretending to be a doctor and giving him compression.

Those chapters really solidified his insanity and made it comfy to read.

It was also a welcome respite from the disturbing chapters.

>H.G. Wells' The Time Machine
The giant mutated crabs which neither appears in the 60s film nor remake

>its a patrick experiments with cannibalism episode

Christ I forgot about that one.

>When he hooks a car battery up to a girls tits and they start turning black and eventually melt.

glad im not the only one that found that almost comically ridiculous

The detective Kimble chapter in the book was so well done compared to the movie. You could seriously feel the insane anxiety Patrick was feeling the whole time.

>When he sees a cheerio being interviewed on the Patty Winters Show
>a cheerio
>in a very small chair

>the in-depth flashbacks
>the torture scenes
>that ending
>entire characters missing
Fuck FOX.

>rape
Okay, I'm actually glad they stood this part out.

> "The things I could do to you with this coat hanger."

These chapters had me in hysterics

>mfw Hollywood remakes this as a PG 13 version about a guy who kills a couple people and feels guilty and he believes he is a horrible Psycho until he finds forgiveness in a women
You know its going to happen eventually

But user, that WAS the movie. Except it was R.

>when he's walking in the park and sees a faggot walking a little poodle or something and stabs him to death violently then raises the poodle up by it's neck against a tree and cuts open its stomach so all its innards fall out

Would have been pure kino desu

Not American Psycho, but it always made me mad how in Harry Potter they get rid of the house elf tirade Hermione went on and also get rid of peeves the poltergeist. Hermione's character ended up falling flat and stale without anything to do outside of be Harry's plot device, and Peeves was just such a big part of the book series that it feels weird to leave him out. They even had the rest of the ghosts.

Definitely not. American Psycho is 50% comedy and scenes like that are ridiculous to the point of being funny.

There’s no use in denying it; this has been a bad week. I’ve started drinking my own urine.

>When he comes inside his girlfriend but then gets soft instantly.

>"I actually WILT out of her."

But not actually, at all.
In the film, there is no catharsis. He finds no forgiveness. It's an endless cycle.
Also he kills a lot of people.

wasn't there also a chapter where he crucifies an old college friend?

I like to think there is hope for the future but Patrick never fully realizes it despite everything thrown his direction. And then his spirit dies in 'Lunar Park' through the fictional Bret Easton Ellis, written by the real Bret Easton Ellis, thusly 'American Psycho' is a fictional world within a fictional world.

Ya, he nails her hands to the floor and maces her while he fucks her mouth.

>In the lobby of my building I stop at the front desk and try to get the attention of a black Hispanic doorman I don't recognize. He's on the phone to his wife or his dealer of some crack addict and stares at me as he nods, the phone cradled in the premature folds of his neck. When it dawns on him that I want to ask something, he sighs, rolls his eyes up and tells whoever is on the line to hold on. "Yeah whatchooneed?" he mumbles. "Yes," I begin, my tone as gentle and polite as I can possibly muster. "Could you please tell the superintendent that I have a crack in my ceiling and…" I stop. He's looking at me as if I have overstepped some kind of unspoken boundary and I'm beginning to wonder what word confused him: certainly not crack, so what was it? Superintendent? Ceiling? Maybe even please?

Why would I read some shit book when I've already got the superior film adaptation?

It's because it came in a Godiva box.

>For an appetizer I ordered radicchio with some kind of free-range squid. Anne and Scott both had the monkfish ragout with violets. Courtney almost fell asleep when she had to exert the energy to read the menu, but before she slid off her chair I grabbed both shoulders, propping her up, and Anne ordered for her, something simple and light like Cajun popcorn perhaps, which wasn't on the menu but since Anne knows Noj, the chef, he made up a special little batch… just for Courtney! Scott and Anne insisted that we all order some kind of blackened medium-rare redfish, a Desk Chairs specialty which was, luckily for them, an entrée on one of the mock menus that Jean made up for me. If it hadn't, and if they nevertheless insisted on my ordering it, the odds were pretty good that after dinner tonight I would have broken into Scott and Anne's studio at around two this morning - after Late Night with David Letterman - and with an ax chopped them to pieces, first making Anne watch Scott bleed to death from gaping chest wounds, and then I would have found a way to get to Exeter where I would pour a bottle of acid all over their son's slanty-eyed zipperhead face. Our waitress is a little hardbody who is wearing gold faux-pearl tasseled lizard sling-back pumps. I forgot to return my videotapes to the store tonight and I curse myself silently while Scott orders two large bottles of San Pellegrino.

Why are you in this thread?

What scenes should I add into my X-Files American Psycho crossover episode?

Keep it at a level that it can be shown on TV please. No rape, no vagina rats, nothing like that.

Taking the racism out of the movie made sense, as in it probably would've been too much for a general audience, but its a really important aspect of the book and it kind of circles the whole point.

>slanty eyed zipperhead face
kek

>When Patrick eats handfuls of sand on the beach, then finds a jellyfish, microwaves it and throws up in a potted plant.

>"Where were you last night, Patrick?"
>I pause. "Why? Where were you?" I ask, while guzzling from a liter of Evian, still slightly sweaty from this afternoon's workout.
>"Arguing with the concierge at the Carlyle," she says, sounding rather pissed off. "Now tell me, Patrick, where were you?"
>"Why were you arguing with him?" I ask.
>"Patrick," she says - a declarative statement.
>"I'm here," I say after a minute.
>"Patrick. It doesn't matter. The phone in my room didn't have two lines and there was no call waiting," she says. "Where were you?"
>"I was… fooling around renting videotapes," I say, pleased, giving myself high-five, the cordless phone cradled in my neck.
>"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."
>"Well," I say, "you couldn't have come over anyway."
>"Honey, why not?" she whines, and then addresses someone who just entered her suite. "Oh wheel it over there near the window… no, that window… and can you tell me where that damn masseuse is?"
>"Because your neighbor's head was in my freezer." I yawn, stretching. "Listen. Dinner? Where? Can you hear me?"

>"It has to be diamond." Her eyes glaze over and she tries to recount the wedding in mind-numbing detail. "It was a sitdown dinner for five hundred… no, excuse me, seven hundred and fifty, followed by a sixteen-foot tiered Ben and Jerry's ice cream cake. The gown was by Ralph and it was white lace and low-cut and sleeveless. It was darling. Oh Patrick, what would you wear?" she sighs.
>"I would demand to wear Ray-Ban sunglasses. Expensive Ray-Bans," I say carefully. "In fact I would demand that everyone would have to wear Ray-Ban sunglasses."
>"I'd want, a zydeco band, Patrick. That's what I'd want. A zydeco band," she gushes breathlessly. "Or mariachi. Or reggae. Something ethnic to shock Daddy. Oh I can't decide."
>"I'd want to bring a Harrison AK-47 assault rifle to the ceremony; " I say, bored, in a rush, "with a thirty-round magazine so after thoroughly blowing your fat mother's head off with it I could use it on that fag brother of yours. And though personally I don't like to use anything the Soviets designed, I don't know, the Harrison somehow reminds me of…" Stopping, confused, inspecting yesterday's manicure, I look back at Evelyn. "Stoli?"
>"Oh, and lots of chocolate truffles. Godiva. And oysters. Oysters on the half shell. Marzipan. Pink tents. Hundreds, thousands of roses. Photographers. Annie Leibovitz. We'll get Annie Leibovitz," she says excitedly. "And we'll hire someone to videotape it!"
>"Or an AR-15. You'd like it, Evelyn: it's the most expensive of guns, but worth every penny." I wink at her. But she's still talking; she doesn't hear a word; nothing registers. She does not fully grasp a word I'm saying. My essence is eluding her. She stops her onslaught and breathes in and looks at me in a way that can only be described as dewy-eyed. Touching my hand, my Rolex, she breathes in once more, this time expectantly, and says, "We should do it."

>Fleetingly I imagine pulling out my knife, slicing a wrist, one of mine, aiming the spurting vein at Armstrong's head or better yet his suit, wondering if he would still continue to talk. I consider getting up without excusing myself, taking a cab to another restaurant, somewhere in SoHo, maybe farther uptown, having a drink, using the rest room, maybe even making a phone call to Evelyn, coming back to Duplex, and every molecule that makes up my body tells me that Armstrong would still be talking about not only his vacation but what seems like the world's vacation in the fucking Bahamas. Somewhere along the line the waiter removes half-eaten appetizers, brings fresh Coronas, free-range chicken with raspberry vinegar and guacamole, calf's liver with shad roe and leeks, and though I'm not sure who ordered what it doesn't really matter since both plates look exactly the same. I end up with the free-range chicken with extra tomatillo sauce, I think.

My nikka

the jewish deli scene from the novel is trukino but would never have made it to the screen

it's pure fucking kek though, someone post that shit i'm too lazy

>Daisy carefully looks me over, then aims her mouth in my direction and blows smoke toward my head, exhaling, and it floats over my hair, missing my eyes, which are protected anyway by the Oliver Peoples nonprescription redwood-framed glasses I've been wearing most of the night. Another one, Libby, the bimbo with jetlag, is trying to figure out how to unfold her napkin. My frustration level is surprisingly low, because things could be worse. After all, these could be English girls. We could be drinking .. . tea.

>“Listen,” I say. “I have a
reservation. Bateman. Where’s the maître d? I know Jackie Mason,” and she sighs, “I
can seat you. Don’t need a reservation,” as she reaches for a menu. She leads me to a
horrible table in back near the rest rooms and I grab the menu away from her and rush
to a booth up front and I’m appalled by the cheapness of the food—“Is this a goddamn
joke?”—and sensing a waitress is near I order without looking up. “A cheeseburger. I’d
like a cheeseburger and I’d like it medium rare.” “I’m sorry, sir,” the waitress says. “No
cheese. Kosher,” and I have no idea what the fuck she’s talking about and I say, “Fine.
A kosher burger but with cheese, Monterey Jack perhaps, and—oh god,” I moan,
sensing more cramps coming on. “No cheese, sir,” she says. “Kosher… ” “Oh god, is
this a nightmare, you fucking Jew?” I mutter, and then, “Cottage cheese? Just bring it?”
“I’ll get the manager,” she says. “Whatever. But bring me a beverage in the meanwhile,”
I hiss. “Yes?” she asks. “A… vanilla… milk shake…” “No milk shakes. Kosher,” she
says, then, “I’ll get the manager.” “No, wait.” “Mister I’ll get the manager.” “What in the
fuck is going on?” I ask, seething, my platinum AmEx already slapped on the greasy
table. “No milk shake. Kosher,” she says, thick-upped, just one of billions of people who
have passed over this planet. “Then bring me a fucking… vanilla… malted!” I roar,
spraying spit all over my open menu. She just stares. “Extra thick!” I add. She walks
away to get the manager and when I see him approaching, a bald carbon copy of the
waitress, I get up and scream, “Fuck yourself you retarded cocksucking kike,” and I run
out of the delicatessen and onto the street where this

All in his head senpai

2-parts.

> Loosening my suspenders, ignoring beggars, beggars ignoring me, sweat-drenched, delirious, I find myself back downtown in Tower Records and I compose myself, muttering over and over to no one, “I’ve gotta return my videotapes, I’ve gotta return my videotapes,” and I buy two copies of my favorite compact disc, Bruce Willis, The Return of Bruno, and then I’m stuck in the revolving door for five full spins and I trip out onto the street, bumping into Charles Murphy from Kidder Peabody or it could be Bruce Barker from Morgan Stanley, whoever, and he says “Hey, Kinsley” and I belch into his face, my eyes rolling back into my head, greenish bile dripping in strings from my bared fangs, and he suggests, unfazed, “See you at Fluties, okay? Severt too?” I screech and while backing away I bump into a fruit stand at a Korean deli, collapsing stacks of apples and oranges and lemons, that go rolling onto the sidewalk, over the curb and into the street where they’re splattered by cabs and cars and buses and trucks and I’m apologizing, delirious, offering a screaming Korean my platinum AmEx accidentally, then a twenty, which he immediately takes, but still he grabs me by the lapels of the stained, wrinkled jacket I’ve forced myself back into and when I look up into his slanty-eyed round face he suddenly bursts into the chorus of Lou Christie’s “Lightnin’ Strikes.”

>Listen,” I say. “I have a reservation. Bateman. Where’s the maître d? I know Jackie Mason,” >and she sighs, “I can seat you. Don’t need a reservation,” as she reaches for a menu. She leads me to a horrible table in back near the rest rooms and I grab the menu away from her and rush to a booth up front and I’m appalled by the cheapness of the food—“Is this a goddamn joke?”—and sensing a waitress is near I order without looking up. “A cheeseburger. I’d like a cheeseburger and I’d like it medium rare.” “I’m sorry, sir,” the waitress says. “No cheese. Kosher,” and I have no idea what the fuck she’s talking about and I say, “Fine. A kosher burger but with cheese, Monterey Jack perhaps, and—oh god,” I moan, sensing more cramps coming on. “No cheese, sir,” she says. “Kosher… ” “Oh god, is this a nightmare, you fucking Jew?” I mutter, and then, “Cottage cheese? Just bring it?” “I’ll get the manager,” she says. “Whatever. But bring me a beverage in the meanwhile,” I hiss. “Yes?” she asks. “A… vanilla… milk shake…” “No milk shakes. Kosher,” she says, then, “I’ll get the manager.” “No, wait.” “Mister I’ll get the manager.” “What in the fuck is going on?” I ask, seething, my platinum AmEx already slapped on the greasy table. “No milk shake. Kosher,” she says, thick-upped, just one of billions of people who have passed over this planet. “Then bring me a fucking… vanilla… malted!” I roar, spraying spit all over my open menu. She just stares. “Extra thick!” I add. She walks away to get the manager and when I see him approaching, a bald carbon copy of the waitress, I get up and scream, “Fuck yourself you retarded cocksucking kike,” and I run where this

>I pull away, horrified, stumbling uptown, toward home, but people, places, stores keep interrupting me, a drug dealer on Thirteenth Street who offers me crack and blindly I wave a fifty at him and he says “Oh, man” gratefully and shakes my hand, pressing five vials into my palm which I proceed to eat whole and the crack dealer stares at me, trying to mask his deep disturbance with an amused glare, and I grab him by the neck and croak out, my breath reeking, “The best engine is in the BMW 750iL,” and then I move on to a phone booth, where I babble gibberish at the operator until I finally spit out my credit card number and then I’m speaking to the front office of Xclusive, where I cancel a massage appointment that I never made. I’m able to compose myself by simply staring at my feet, actually at the A. Testoni loafers, kicking pigeons aside, and without even noticing, I enter a shabby delicatessen on Second Avenue and I’m still confused, mixed up, sweaty, and I walk over to a short, fat Jewish woman, old and hideously dressed.

haha oh wow

thanks user, haven't read that passage in ages & had a hearty laff

I wanna write a book. What would the story be tho?

This all sounds like something out of Frasier

The main character is running from the police in a world where there is no police

>"So! It was really hot out today. Right?"
>"I need a new fur," Libby sighs, staring into her champagne
>"Full length or ankle length?" Daisy asks in the same tonelow voice.
>"A stole?" Caron suggests.
>"Either a full length or…" Libby stops and thinks hard for a minute. "I saw this short, cuddly wrap…"
>"But mink, right?" Daisy asks. "Definitely mink?"
>"Oh yeah. Mink," Libby says.
>"Hey Taylor," I whisper, nudging him. "Wake up. They're talking. You've gotta see this."
>"But which kind?" Caron's on a roll.
>"Don't you find some minks are too… fluffy?" Daisy asks.
>"Some minks are too fluffy." Libby this time.
>"Silver fox is very popular," Daisy murmurs.
>"Beige tones are also increasingly popular," Libby says.
>"Which ones are those?" someone asks.
>"Lynx. Chinchilla. Ermine. Beaver-"
>"Hello?" Taylor wakes up, blinking. "I'm here."
>"Go back to sleep, Taylor," I sigh.
>"Where's Mr. McDermott?" he asks, stretching.
>"Wandering around downstairs. Looking for coke." I shrug. "Silver fox is very popular," one of them says.
>"Raccoon. Fitch. Squirrel. Muskrat. Mongolian lamb."
>"Am I dreaming," Taylor asks me, "or… am I really hearing an actual conversation?"
>"Well, I suppose what passes for one." I wince. "Shhh. Listen. It's inspiring."
>At the sushi restaurant tonight McDermott, in a state of total frustration, asked the girls if they knew the names of any of the nine planets. Libby and Caron guessed the moon. Daisy wasn't sure but she actually guessed… Comet. Daisy thought that Comet was a planet. Dumbfounded, McDermott, Taylor and I all assured her that it was.

Fuck. I want a crossover now

>Daisy smiles approvingly. I play it cool, ignoring them. I recognize Alison as a girl I did last spring while at the Kentucky Derby with Evelyn and her parents. I remember she screamed when I tried to push my entire arm, gloved and slathered with Vaseline, toothpaste, anything I could find, up into her vagina. She was drunk, wasted on coke, and I had tied her up with wire, slapped duct tape all over her mouth, her face, her breasts. Francesca has given me head before. I don't remember the place, or when, but she's given me head and liked it. I suddenly remember, painfully, that I would have liked to see Alison bleed to death that afternoon last spring but something stopped me. She was so high - "oh my god," she kept moaning during those hours, blood bubbling out of her nose - she never wept. Maybe that was the problem; maybe that was what saved her. I won a lot of money that weekend on a horse called Indecent Exposure.

i forgot how amazing his chapter long freakout is

Every instance of him mentioning the phrase "nameless dread". I think he mentions it like 5 or 6 times. I don't know why, but I find it intensely hilarious his inner monologue banter. Btw you can google something like "american psycho nameless dread" and get all the quotes.

>A Richard Marx CD plays on the stereo, a bag from Zabar's loaded with sourdough onion bagels and spices sits on the kitchen table while I grind bone and fat and flesh into patties, and though it does sporadically penetrate how unacceptable some of what I'm doing actually is, I just remind myself that this thing, this girl, this meat, is nothing, is shit, and along with a Xanax (which I am now taking half-hourly) this thought momentarily calms me and then I'm humming, humming the theme to a show I watched often as a child - The Jetsons? The Banana Splits? Scooby Doo? Sigmund and the Sea Monsters? I'm remembering the song, the melody, even the key it was sung in, but not the show. Was it Lidsville? Was it H. R. Pufnstuf? These questions are punctuated by other questions, as diverse as "Will I ever do time?" and "Did this girl have a trusting heart?" The smell of meat and blood clouds up the condo until I don't notice it anymore. And later my macabre joy sours and I'm weeping for myself, unable to find solace in any of this, crying out, sobbing "I just want to be loved," cursing the earth and everything I have been taught: principles, distinctions, choices, morals, compromises, knowledge, unity, prayer - all of it was wrong, without any final purpose. All it came down to was: die or adapt. I imagine my own vacant face, the disembodied voice coming from its mouth: These are terrible times. Maggots already writhe across the human sausage, the drool pouring from my lips dribbles over them, and still I can't tell if I'm cooking any of this correctly, because I'm crying too hard and I have never really cooked anything before.

>When he starts to subtly break down at the end of his Huey Lewis review.

>“Give Me the Keys (And I’ll Drive You Crazy)” is a good-times blues rocker about (what else?) driving around, incorporating the album’s theme in a much more playful way than previous songs on the album did, and though lyrically it might seem impoverished, it’s still a sign that the new “serious” Lewis—that Huey the artist hasn’t totally lost his frisky sense of humor. The album ends with “Slammin’,” which has no words and it’s just a lot of horns that quite frankly, if you turn it up really loud, can give you a fucking big headache and maybe even make you feel a little sick, though it might
sound different on an album or on a cassette though I wouldn’t know anything about that. Anyway it set off something wicked in me that lasted for days. And you cannot dance to it very well.

people have a hard time separating racist characters from racist movies and that makes directors make fucking a lot more boring decisions

I like how his descriptions of things in the book, like clothing and food, sound pretty cool and ritzy, but are actually fucking random and ridiculous, if you know about 80s fashions, or anything about fine dining.

Easy to miss the first time you read.

i thought that was kinda the point, critique of the yuppie culture and obsession with unappealing weird food combinations

I don't know, I could go for some chilli and sea bass with Cajun popcorn and free-range squid on the side.

I had toyed with the idea of a man trying to start a revolution and kill the leader of an anarcho-communist community/town/small country

Fucking imagine it.

It would be anerican psycho except the main character is also a psychologist, so self analysing non stop while going insane, completely loosing it at his cultured father and having to deal with his sane yet OCD psychiatrist brother constantly assessing his sanity.

And he has his own fucking radio show where he gets to ramble his nonsense non stop.

He was originally supposed to be in the first one and was played by Rik Mayall, but he was cut out.

Twist: No one actually listens to his show cause he's terrible at it and he is actually talking to himself.

fund it

>film
>superior
My sides are in fucking orbit.

I actually thought it was yuppie slang, basically "basic"

It is. The book has so much redundancy and needed to be heavily edited.

I can't believe they cut the dinner scene with his brother Sean. They could have done it with the guy him'playing him in Rules of Attractions, would have been great.

>Not understanding that the redundancy and bizarre narrative structure are intentional, meant to reinforce the sense that the story is told from the point of view of an insane person.

>That one joke:

>JFK and Pearl Bailey fuck in the oval office
>JFK wants to go to bed and Bailey wants to fuck again.
>"Okay, let me sleep for 30 minutes, but you have to keep one hand on my balls and the other on my cock the whole time?"
>"Why do I have to do that?"
>"Cause the last time I fucked a nigger she stole my wallet."

No, it simply could've gotten that across with less and did. Although the amount of people who think he actually killed people might leave you skeptical. Didn't say anything about the structure of the narrative.

This is the best sequence in the book. Why the fuck did they didn't put it in the movie I'll never know.

>"Cause the last time I fucked a nigger she stole my wallet."
Jesus

Late, but seconding that it literally was. Reread it last month.

>The book has so much awesome content and needed to be heavily censored.
FTFY, fampai.

Literally laughed until I hurt.

Also
>Bateman gets butthurt at McDermott for wanting to order a pizza at the restaurant, but then has to eat his words when it comes out that Donald Trump loves the pizza there.

Just recently read it for the first time, and it was crazy how many references to Trump there are.

Dubs.confirmed


Is meme.magic

Wasn't there a part where Patrick makes crank calls to a girls prep school and says dirty and violent things to them, getting off to it, until one of the girls says "Dad? Is that you?" And then he hangs up.

I can't believe that wasn't in the movie

>I have never really cooked anything before.

This is my favourite line in the book

the fact that people have (erroneously) interpreted the movie to mean that he only fantasized about killing is evidence of how much weaker it is than the book

>he thinks any of it was real

Fuck if they had done this novel as an animated film instead this would've been a top keks movie through and through.

>He thinks all of it was imaginary

>He doesn't get that the book is an experiment to determine if the reader can ignore the difference between real and not real and focus instead on the message instead of worrying about which parts of the narrative were "real" when the whole book was a work of fiction.

>the author has confirmed the intent was always for it to be real

>the director and writer of the screenplay have both said that the one thing they think they failed at was the way they used the police sequence in such a way that it confused their viewers as to the reality of his acts in general

>literally every single person who has ever touched the material creatively says it is real

>you were not able to figure out it was real

maybe just
stop reading in general
even movies seem a little overwhelming for you
try vines.

>I mention that I'd like to tit-fuck her and then maybe cut her arms off

>the author has confirmed the intent was always for it to be real

Fucking when? When did Bret Easton Ellis say this? Post a fucking link and I swear to you I'll eat my words.

>free-range
>1980s era

What?

its a joke.
the meals in the book are a literally a running joke because theyre so stupid.

>browsed Sup Forums for 4 years
>first time I've been able to discuss this film without it turning into a numerals thread

finally

>…a flood of reality. I get an odd feeling that this is a crucial moment in my life and I'm startled by the suddenness of what I guess passes for an epiphany. There is nothing of value I can offer her. For the first time I see Jean as uninhibited; she seems stronger, less controllable, wanting to take me into a new and unfamiliar land - the dreaded uncertainty of a totally different world. I sense she wants to rearrange my life in a significant way - her eyes tell me this and though I see truth in them, I also know that one day, sometime very soon, she too will be locked in the rhythm of my insanity. All I have to do is keep silent about this and not bring it up - yet she weakens me, it's almost as if she's making the decision about who I am, and in my own stubborn, willful way I can admit to feeling a pang, something tightening inside, and before I can stop it I find myself almost dazzled and moved that I might have the capacity to accept, though not return, her love. I wonder if even now, right here in Nowheres, she can see the darkening clouds behind my eyes lifting. And though the coldness I have always felt leaves me, the numbness doesn't and probably never will. This relationship will probably lead to nothing… this didn't change anything. I imagine her smelling clean, like tea…

>…where there was nature and earth, life and water, I saw a desert landscape that was unending, resembling some sort of crater, so devoid of reason and light and spirit that the mind could not grasp it on any sort of conscious level and if you came close the mind would reel backward, unable to take it in. It was a vision so clear and real and vital to me that in its purity it was almost abstract. This was what I could understand, this was how I lived my life, what I constructed my movement around, how I dealt with the tangible. This was the geography around which my reality revolved: it did not occur to me, ever, that people were good or that a man was capable of change or that the world could be a better place through one's taking pleasure in a feeling or a look or a gesture, of receiving another person's love or kindness. Nothing was affirmative, the term "generosity of spirit" applied to nothing, was a cliché, was some kind of bad joke. Sex is mathematics. Individuality no longer an issue. What does intelligence signify? Define reason. Desire - meaningless. Intellect is not a cure. Justice is dead. Fear, recrimination, innocence, sympathy, guilt, waste, failure, grief, were things, emotions, that no one really felt anymore. Reflection is useless, the world is senseless. Evil is its only permanence. God is not alive. Love cannot be trusted. Surface, surface, surface was all that anyone found meaning in… this was civilization as I saw it, colossal and jagged…

>Patrick goes on a double date
>waiter comes to take drinks order
>one of the women orders run and coke
>Patrick tells her to order rum and diet Pepsi instead because it is healthier
>everyone stares at him
>he starts crying because he realises that he is a completely irredeemable autist who will never fit in no matter how hard he tries and how many music reviews he memorizes