Going to the Dark Place

I could not for the life of me fall asleep last night. I blame the (hopefully) imaginary bedbugs and my overactive imagination. To pass the time, I began racking my brains about what I wanted to write about today. I came up with Bret Easton Ellis. To give you an idea of how my little mind works, I started with my cat, Alfie (Who as of late has begun to distress me deeply. No joke, I'm concerned he has gone over to the dark side, and I've taken to addressing him respectfully as Sir and never making eye contact). Anyway, thinking of Sir Alfred always makes me daydream about what if he had super hero powers, which in turn lead to Batman, which lead to Christian Bale, which lead inevitably to American Psycho. Simple associations, no? In any case, I read American Psycho a few months ago, when I was still living in London. At the time, I was putting off writing my thesis in favor of concentrating more fully on developing bipolar disorder (so obviously, in a GREAT place). So I thought, let's go to Waterstone's and pick out something cheerful and motivational to read whilst scoping out the local hipsters and feeling mighty superior (Not only will this get me out of the house for an activity that doesn't involve alcohol, but it also includes a long bus ride around northwest London, and we all know riding the bus is an epic adventure all on its own). And, she's off.

Perhaps it was just my particularly dark mood that day (or perhaps I just couldn't bear the thought of the hipsters behind the counter openly mocking me as they rang up a copy of Eat Pray Love, even though I couldn't really blame them as I would probably mock me, too), but I ended up leaving with a copy of American Psycho. Whatever, I thought, I loved the movie. Oh, the wrong choices we make.

I will never, as long as I live, forgive Mr. Bret Easton Douchebag Ellis. For the next two days, I did nothing but read. Not because I liked what I was reading, but because I felt the nightmare could not end until I turned the final page. Don't misunderstand me. In no way was this book scary. I can get on board with scary. No, the only terrifying part of AP was Ellis' cold, hard writing style. You, sir, are an asshole. Seriously, this jagoff goes on for-freaking-EVER about 80s-90s pop culture, fashion, and random expensive electronics. No one knows anyone else's names, everyone who is described looks exactly alike, and I get it, I really do, that maybe this IS what it was like in the age of the yuppie, but part of me thinks you'd just rather write a love letter to Phil Collins than focus on character development. And honestly, who wouldn't?

The only redeeming thing about reading AP was that it's impossible once you've seen the film to picture anyone but Christian Bale as Patrick Bateman. And I don't know about you, but I can picture Christian Bale doing just about anything and it's still sexy. I'm serious, ANYTHING. In fact, if Christian Bale showed up with a chainsaw and wanted to hack me into tiny little pieces and keep my severed head in his refrigerator, I'd be like...EFF, YEA! As long as he sang me that song from Newsies first, I would die a happy, happy camper. Really, I can think of no better way to go.

When I finally finished this mess, I was even more of a crazed lunatic than I typically am. I researched serial killers obsessively, and diagnosed myself, my ex-boyfriend, and my mother as sociopaths (to be fair, that's not entirely inaccurate). I also made a playlist of every pop song referenced throughout the book. I could barely function socially for a week. Seriously, I was all nervous and shifty-eyed and friends were all Um, are you SURE you're alright? and I was all Yea, I'm cool but I think that guy over there might be a mass murderer...This book made me a nervous wreck, like for reals for reals. I still find myself occasionally lecturing my friends. If you tell me you met a new guy who is really cute and charming and wonderful, my knee jerk response is "YEA, SO WAS JEFFREY DAHMER!" (Why yes, I'm excessively popular, why do you ask?)

The moral of this story: Just buy Eat Pray Love. Bite the bullet and swallow your pride. Nothing good can come of trying to be edgy. To hell with the hipsters, say I.