Just had to get this off my chest...
Later, predictably, she's tied to the floor, naked, on her back, both feet, both hands, tied to makeshift posts that are connected to boards which are weighted down with metal. The hands are shot full of nails and her legs are spread as wide as possible. A pillow props her ass up and cheese, Brie, has been smeared across her open cunt, some of it even pushed up into the vaginal cavity. She's barely gained consciousness and when she sees me, standing over her, naked, I can imagine that my virtual absence of humanity fills her with mind-bending horror. I've situated the body in front of the new Toshiba television set and in the VCR is an old tape and appearing on the screen is the last girl I filmed. I'm wearing a Joseph Abbound suit, a tie by Paul Stuart, shoes by J. Crew, a vest by someone Italian and I'm kneeling on the floor beside a corpse, eating the girl's brain, gobbling it down, spreading Grey Poupon over hunks of the pink, fleshy meat.
"Can you see?" I ask the girl not on the television set. "Can you see this? Are you watching?" I whisper.
I try using the power drill on her, forcing it into her mouth, but she's conscious enough, has strength, to close her teeth, clamping them down, and even though the drill goes through the teeth quickly, it fails to interest me and so I hold her head up, blood dribbling from her mouth, and make her watched the rest of the tape and while she's looking at the girl on the screen bleed from almost every orifice, I'm hoping she realises that this would have happened to her no matter what.
I'm trying to ease one of the hollow plastic tubes from the dismantled Habitrail system up into her vagina, forcing the vaginal lips around one end of it, and even with most of it greased with olive oil, it's not fitting in properly. During this, the jukebox plays Frankie Valli singing "The Worst That Could Happen" and I'm grimly lip-syncing to it, whilst pushing the Habitrail tube up into this bitch's cunt. I finally have to resort to pouring acid around the outside of the pussy so that the flesh can give way to the greased end of the Habitrail and soon enough it slides in, easily. "I hope this hurts you," I say.
The rat hurls itself against the glass cage as I move it from the kitchen into the living room. For the last five days I've purposefully starved it. I set the glass cage down next to the girl and maybe because of the scent of the cheese the rat seems to go insane, first running in circles, mewling, then trying to heave its body, weak with hunger, over the side of the cage. The rat doesn't need any prodding and with the girl still conscious, the thing moves effortlessly on newfound energy, racing up the tube until half of its body disappears, and then after a minute - its rat body shaking while it feeds - all of it vanishes, except for the tail, and I yank the Habitrail tube out of the girl, trapping the rodent. Soon even the tail disappears. The noises the girl is making are, for the most part, incomprehensible.
So I'm feeling a bit of teeny bit of angst re: girls at the moment. Certain perfections have become not so perfect, and certain imperfections have become fucking slags. My life is still a neverending cycle of longing and regret, devoid of real meaning and full of metaphorical spit. Rather than write a post about the specifics (there's plenty of time for that!), I thought I'd just immediately bash out extracts of a scene in a book which really nailguns the topic of hating meaninglessness.
I don't particularly give a shit if the above has offended you - sometimes I just feel like reading about girls getting mutilated to death and now you've accidentally read about it too. Heh. Now fuck off...
"Can you see?" I ask the girl not on the television set. "Can you see this? Are you watching?" I whisper.
I try using the power drill on her, forcing it into her mouth, but she's conscious enough, has strength, to close her teeth, clamping them down, and even though the drill goes through the teeth quickly, it fails to interest me and so I hold her head up, blood dribbling from her mouth, and make her watched the rest of the tape and while she's looking at the girl on the screen bleed from almost every orifice, I'm hoping she realises that this would have happened to her no matter what.
I'm trying to ease one of the hollow plastic tubes from the dismantled Habitrail system up into her vagina, forcing the vaginal lips around one end of it, and even with most of it greased with olive oil, it's not fitting in properly. During this, the jukebox plays Frankie Valli singing "The Worst That Could Happen" and I'm grimly lip-syncing to it, whilst pushing the Habitrail tube up into this bitch's cunt. I finally have to resort to pouring acid around the outside of the pussy so that the flesh can give way to the greased end of the Habitrail and soon enough it slides in, easily. "I hope this hurts you," I say.
The rat hurls itself against the glass cage as I move it from the kitchen into the living room. For the last five days I've purposefully starved it. I set the glass cage down next to the girl and maybe because of the scent of the cheese the rat seems to go insane, first running in circles, mewling, then trying to heave its body, weak with hunger, over the side of the cage. The rat doesn't need any prodding and with the girl still conscious, the thing moves effortlessly on newfound energy, racing up the tube until half of its body disappears, and then after a minute - its rat body shaking while it feeds - all of it vanishes, except for the tail, and I yank the Habitrail tube out of the girl, trapping the rodent. Soon even the tail disappears. The noises the girl is making are, for the most part, incomprehensible.
- American Psycho
Bret Easton Ellis
So I'm feeling a bit of teeny bit of angst re: girls at the moment. Certain perfections have become not so perfect, and certain imperfections have become fucking slags. My life is still a neverending cycle of longing and regret, devoid of real meaning and full of metaphorical spit. Rather than write a post about the specifics (there's plenty of time for that!), I thought I'd just immediately bash out extracts of a scene in a book which really nailguns the topic of hating meaninglessness.
I don't particularly give a shit if the above has offended you - sometimes I just feel like reading about girls getting mutilated to death and now you've accidentally read about it too. Heh. Now fuck off...
posted by Juliet is Bleeding... | 1:39 pm
i may not be able to sleep tonight, but that was worth it.
Oy vey Ma-fucking-ria. I haven't read that book yet. Thanks for the recommendation.
*vomits quietly into trash can under desk*
I...
*vomits again*
Introspectre: To be perfectly honest, I didn't give a fuck whether or not anybody would be offended by this. That was at the time of writing.
Your comment, however, has made me feel bad - and I don't truly know why. See...
I've never seen the site as a playground for mildly offensive banter about lovelessness. I've seen it more as a place where I can come after a hard life's solid cunting over and post whateverthefuck gets lodged in my brain. I've always wanted to post an extract from American Psycho on here - it IS Love Is A Cunt and I DO recommend reading it (though not to you, I suppose). I was feeling sufficiently pissed off with life that day that I really didn't mind who I'd offend, so I posted it.
But okay, turns out, you can put in as much anger into the title of a site and write a decent warning re: the offensive nature of the posters in the FAQ, but people still expect certain codes and rules to be followed. Well, eff that. This is the one place I have where I can be absolutely honest with myself and act like a cunt when I want to.
Having said all of that, I *do* care that you were offended and I'm sorry that you were. But I can't guarantee that I won't post something of equal disturbance at a later date - I won't pussyfoot around an invisible readership - and if that means you (or anybody else) stops reading my posts then so be it. I don't like it, but neither am I going to lie to you.
I'll try and give a bit of warning next time, though. I bet you'd all still read it anyway.
Thanks Pillowfeather. But Introspectre's comment above, nonetheless, disturbed me to such an extent that I felt the need to write a post about it. However, I found that, after I'd written it, the post had nothing whatsoever to do with LIAC. So uhh, I’m going to put what I wrote here in the comments.
A disclaimer; this comment isn’t, strictly, directed at Introspectre. It’s more at her kind.
See, I can see her cause for complaint, in theory - every single word is constructed to fuck you up. But I get off on that. That's how I rate art. Anything which can stir any sort of emotion in me, I will consider art. Whether or not that emotion is flying on clouds of radiance, or that emotion is festering in the cuts of despair.
I don't only read novels which depict, graphically, the dismemberment of young girls. I read them when I want to feel utter, debauched evil. I read novels which are by J. K. Rowling. They evoke anger and pity in me (for those that like Rowling, of course). I read novels by Paulo Coelho, because they make me feel peaceful. I read novels by Michael Crichton because they logically disturb me and novels by Neil Gaiman because they make me feel wonder and awe.
And those are just the novels. I use music in the same, exact way, and visual art too. Unrestricted to the formal and/or fine arts, these can include watching thunderstorms or listening to wasps by my ear. Anything can be art, if it stirs you.
Surely we all do this? Of course we do. This isn't new to us. I think, however, that what disturbed this particular girl was the fact that one could find beauty in exploring emotions that are very far removed from happiness or harmony or order. Fine - some people think like that. Perhaps only I don’t. I think there is something to be learned in all types of emotion - and especially in those alien to you. Of course, in those alien to you.
Bret Easton Ellis is a brilliant writer, because he can evoke an absolute feeling of horror and recoil. I could write about shoving a rat up a girl's cunt without much trouble, but it wouldn't have nearly the same effect as his own prose. He places you, right there, in the perpetrator's head. You are fed his emotions as he does it - which are those of idle curiosity and mild boredom. That is what makes you turn away or retch - not the idea.
It's all well and good to fantasise away all the decent reading in the world by saying "ah, it's just a bunch of psychotic BS, anybody that writes it is evil and anybody that reads it wants to be evil". But it's just not true. I thoroughly enjoy reading books about serial killers, but I also thoroughly enjoy reading books about Harry Fucking Potter, and neither of those facts means I'm going to nailgun you to a makeshift crucifix any more than I'm going to try and walk into the wall between platforms 9 and 10 at Kings Cross Station. It really is that ludicrous to blame literature for demented people.
Next thing I'll hear, it'll be that computer games are the devil's own fecal matter.
For the nailed, weeping Christ's sake people - if you're going to blame anybody or anything for psychos, blame parents! Your parents, in fact, you weird, censor-ific, double-plus-mad psycho.
I totally appreciate that American Psycho is not great to read if you have a nervous disposition - so I understand the girl's complaint at face value. This comment was about something totally different to that, though - her undertone that such writing is useless and good-for-nothing. I just don't agree.
That is all.
Disturbing, get help sicko