I—I have no idea what to say or think or do in regards to this book. I mean, when I started this out, I said that I was going to watch the movie after reading the book, but now . . . well, I'm not that sure.

It's not that I'm nervous about the torture scenes or whatever. Today's media is so utterly depraved that I didn't really care about those passages in the book, except to share them to my friends in some kind of twisted sociological experiment about how'd they react (suffice to say, they concluded that the author must have been a murderer before and they've demanded that I finish it—take of that what you will).

No, it's not about that. Rather, it's about this book and that film and, oh dear Lord, would the film ever at least reach the exact amount of genius that this book gave to me while reading?

Because let's forget about the crimes and the depravity and the violence. Let's look at this book for what it really is: a careful meditation about narcissism and egoism and too much consumerism. If this book is scary, it isn't because of the overly descriptive torture scenes. This book is scary because Patrick Bateman, who he is and what he is, could easily be you and me.

And that is fucking scary.