It took me three months to read American Psycho. Three months of having to read graphic sexual murders interspaced between either the tragedy of choosing and reserving restaurants, the intricacies of gentleman grooming, random discography reviews of 80s musicians, or rambling about some moronic videotape commitment. Felt like a bad Tuesday being described. It probably cultivated my imaginary apathetic organ, might have loosened my already lowly set morals. But it got me reading again, which is great. After a few months of not touching a book, instead writing senseless articles and working on marketing campaigns driven by the greed of capitalism, this feels like a pointless accomplishment. But I didn’t make money writing this, and that kind of irks me. Fuck.