American Psycho's critique of 1980s yuppie excess—where individuals treated their bodies as business cards and self-optimization as a path to meaning—has evolved into a normalized cultural phenomenon where the pursuit of physical perfection and self-improvement has become a form of existential emptiness, with individuals optimizing their bodies, routines, and identities while remaining fundamentally hollow, as the perfect body and psychopathy become symptoms of the same underlying disease: the belief that meaning can be purchased through self-maintenance.
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American Psycho - Congratulations. We're All Patrick Bateman NowAdded:
1,000 stomach crunches.
Every morning Patrick Bateman counts them like stock prices.
The way a junkie counts days clean.
Like the number of ways you can slice open a human throat.
The word corporation comes from the Latin corpus, meaning body.
Bateman's incorporated himself. Patrick Bateman LLC.
Limited liability. Unlimited sociopathy.
Bodies aren't bodies anymore. They're billboards. Prime locations advertising your net worth.
Bateman's body's a meat-based business card.
Embossed with veins. Watermarked with sweat.
That subtle off-white coloring of trenbolone.
The [music] tasteful thickness of his delts.
My god. It even has a six-pack. [music] Bateman files the paperwork. La Mer moisturizer. Isopure protein.
Vitamins lined up like a pharmaceutical [music] firing squad. The Amazon Prime approach to existence. Next-day delivery on a soul that never ships.
His morning routine runs like a Swiss train schedule.
Reps timed. Sets logged. Workout stats recited like Nasdaq closing numbers.
I can do a thousand now.
Not I did.
Can do.
Present capability. Accumulate value.
Sweat equity in the bank of nobody gives a [ __ ] The only thing compounding is cortisol and existential debt.
The Spartans used to throw babies off cliffs. At least they got it over with quickly.
Bateman throws himself every morning.
Still hasn't hit bottom.
Muscle's just scar tissue. Microscopic trauma rebuilt stronger.
Corporate Kevlar.
Not protecting the inside. Advertising nothing's there.
His mirror flexing's less vanity, more quality control.
Checking the merchandise before market open.
The market never closes. The gym never sleeps.
The first rule of retail, the product always eats the consumer.
Bateman can't stop because products depreciate. They rot.
Shelf life shorter than 7-Eleven sushi.
Maintaining an asset that loses value faster than a Tesla Cybertruck.
In Japan, they call it karoshi.
Death from overwork.
Bateman's got it backwards, working himself to death to look alive.
>> [music] >> Capitalism's greatest trick.
Making you both the sweatshop and the sneaker.
The child laborers stitching your own Nikes.
Every workout's unpaid overtime.
Each mirror check's a performance review for a job that doesn't exist.
Not because it makes you better.
Because stopping makes you worthless.
Bateman's workout and skin care routine [music] are the same thing.
Maintenance on a machine that produces nothing but its own maintenance.
A printer that only prints pictures of itself printing.
Bateman discovering what women always knew.
Your flesh is currency and the exchange rate is [ __ ] Sisyphus had a boulder and a mountain.
Bateman has dumbbells and a mirror.
Sisyphus was condemned by Zeus.
We swipe right on our own damnation.
Discipline isn't freedom. It's a subscription service you can't cancel.
Some twisted [ __ ] named Bentham dreamed up the Panopticon back when [music] powdered wigs were still a thing.
A circular prison where guards could see everything, but prisoners saw nothing.
Genius level sadism.
We don't need prison architects anymore.
We built the cells ourselves.
Your iPhone tracks everything. Steps, REM cycles, how long you stare at your ex's [music] Instagram.
The guards aren't in towers, they're in Cupertino, in Meta headquarters, in your girlfriend's TikTok comments.
Every morning, wake up, check your Aura ring, police your flesh, report to nobody.
Punish yourself harder than any warden would ever dare.
The tragedy, this prison looks like a penthouse. Blue checkmark, verified account, personal brand so strong it strangled the person.
The dose only escalates. 10 push-ups become 500. One Xanax becomes three Klonopin.
The hamster wheel is on fire. The pet store's condemned, but you keep running because the exit's been outsourced.
Here's what they don't tell you about Narcissus. He didn't just love his reflection. He starved to death staring at it. Wasted away. Became the nothing he was looking at.
The Greeks knew. Self-love's just another way to eat yourself alive.
Bateman takes notes.
Lives in a $4 million infinity mirror where humans are the least interesting furniture.
The Sub-Zero fridge, the Gaggenau oven, floor-to-ceiling glass.
Bateman only exists in reflections.
Watching himself watch himself until there's nobody left to watch.
The word person comes from the Latin persona, a theatrical mask.
Bateman peels off his facial mask every morning like he's shedding yesterday's failed humanity.
Face is fiction.
Just another Bateman under the Bateman.
Think about that raincoat.
Clear plastic over Valentino while he kills.
The coat doesn't hide his identity. It protects his suit, the actual identity from reality's mess.
Transparent motor gear, everyone looks away.
Here's what nobody understands about psychopaths.
They're not trying to feel nothing.
They're trying to feel anything.
Murder as emotions last ditch [music] Hail Mary pass.
Destroying others to feel alive.
Taking life because he doesn't have one.
For Bateman, murder's just another workout, another routine, another way to fill the time between nothing [music] and nothing.
Tuesday's chest, Thursday dispose of Paul Allen.
We evolved to see our reflection in puddles. Now it's every surface. Phone screens, elevator doors, the black mirror of a sleeping laptop.
You spend more time with your own face than your mother's.
You know your blackheads better than your kids laughter.
Each reflection slightly different, none of them real.
Jean Baudrillard, the French philosopher who looked like Santa Claus if Santa dealt Quaaludes, called this the simulacrum.
The copy with no original.
The deep fake before the fake.
The Instagram filter looking for a face to wear.
But here's the mind [ __ ] You're watching this through your iPhone, watching a 4K restoration of a film shot in 1999 [music] about 1987.
The VHS tape digitized, upscaled, compressed, streamed until Christian Bale becomes electromagnetic static pretending [music] to be human.
That scene where he films himself [ __ ] while watching the playback while checking the mirror.
a masturbation Möbius strip, OnlyFans with one subscriber.
His partner may as well be gym equipment, just another surface to check his form against, a Peloton that moans.
The word gymnasium comes from No, [ __ ] that.
You know what Dorsia means?
Nothing.
It's a sound rich people [music] make when they're trying to describe somewhere you'll never go.
Bateman's body is Dorsia, a location that doesn't exist, but everyone pretends they've been there.
I want to fit in.
Bateman tells Evelyn.
Like a tumor that nobody notices is cancer.
Wall Street doesn't produce individuals.
It mass produces Bateman, serial numbers instead of serial killers.
Psychopathy hides in plain sight because psychopathy is the uniform.
There is no real me.
InTech, they call this a feature, not a bug.
Goldman Sachs pays seven figures for this kind of flexibility, the ability to fire a thousand people before lunch and donate to orphans at dinner.
Souls create drag. Bateman flows like mercury.
But mercury also causes hallucinations.
19th century hat makers went insane breathing mercury fumes. Mad hatter syndrome.
Their reality dissolved, perceptions warped. That's Bateman by the third act.
Did he kill Paul Allen or imagine it?
Display windows show him different versions of nobody.
What if the perfect body is as imaginary as the murders?
Abs from the Latin abdominalis means to hide away.
Bateman's abs may be washboard, maybe flab wrapped in designer delusion.
The thousand crunches exist in the same place as the chainsaw murders.
Somewhere between synapse and psychosis.
Both there and not there until observed.
Schrodinger's abs.
But confession requires a self to confess, a soul to save, a person to forgive.
He's a corporation trying to feel guilty.
A return on investment trying to find God.
The film isn't showing us a psychopath with the perfect body.
It's showing us that the perfect body and the psychopathy are the same symptom.
The disease of believing you can purchase meaning.
Mary Harron turns the camera into a liar.
Makes a mirror that looks like a movie.
The only reliable narrator is your own doubt.
Your eyes receive light reflected off a screen. Your brain assembles shapes.
Your mind decides what's real.
Three separate processes.
Three separate chances to [ __ ] up the truth.
You think you're watching Bateman?
You're watching yourself watch yourself.
The body on screen is a Rorschach test of your own [ __ ] up expectations.
If you see discipline, you've already bought the product.
If you see aspiration, congratulations.
You're Paul Allen waiting to get axed.
Truth isn't just dead, it's being dismembered and stored in separate freezers.
Somewhere along the way, the satire got stripped for parts and rebuilt as a lifestyle brand.
Ed Gein made lampshades out of human skin.
At least he had a goal.
Now we turn our own skin into content.
[music] Chemical peels, morning routines, before and after posts, skinning ourselves alive for the algorithm.
Put a serial killer on the internet. He becomes a lifestyle coach.
The 4:30 a.m. ice bath, the lion's mane coffee, the mouth taping sleep hack.
We turn Bateman's psychosis >> [music] >> into a Huberman Lab episode.
Gorilla mode pre-workout, alpha brain, ashwagandha, magnesium glycinate, replacement parts for the human you used to be.
The modern Bateman doesn't need a nail gun. He's got headspace and a Whoop strap.
He doesn't kill people. He kills every part of himself that can't be quantified.
The male grooming industry, $78 billion.
Male suicide rates, highest ever recorded. [music] Men dying inside optimized bodies that have never looked better.
Personal trainers adjust your form.
Financial advisors adjust your portfolio. Therapists adjust your coping mechanisms.
Nobody adjusts the hollow [ __ ] core where yourself used to live.
In American [music] Psycho, Bateman looks in the mirror and sees nothing.
In 2026, we call that goals.
Sigma male. Have you heard this term?
Sigma [ __ ] male.
The man who doesn't need anyone because he's too busy optimizing his morning routine.
These kids watch Bateman and see everything except the point.
Like reading Moby Dick for fishing advice. Like watching Schindler's List for fashion tips.
They're not joking. Or they are joking.
Or they're joking about not joking.
The internet makes everything true and false simultaneously.
Schrödinger's [ __ ] post.
Men building bodies like castles no one will ever storm.
Fortifying nothing against nothing.
The enemy never comes because the enemy is the absence of an enemy.
Vanitas, Latin for emptiness, futility, where we get the word vanity.
The old masters painted skulls next to mirrors reminding us that beauty is temporary and death is forever.
All this preening's rehearsal for decomposition.
Your six-pack's future worm food doing publicity shots.
This is not an exit.
These words hang at the end of American Psycho.
No exit from the body, no exit from the violence, no exit from the system that creates both. No exit from the loop because the loop is the point.
You're not maintaining your body so you can live. You're living so you can maintain your body.
Sartre said hell is other people. Wrong.
Hell is you. Alone with your Fitbit realizing you've walked 10,000 steps to nowhere.
Hell is optimizing everything except your reason to exist.
The future isn't robots replacing humans. It's humans replacing themselves with something that photographs better.
Something that looks perfect and feels like absolutely [ __ ] nothing.
The body remains. The perfect body. The gleaming empty and possibly maintained body. Still doing crunches. Still checking its watch.
Because that's the real horror. You could be in perfect shape and perfect hell at the same time. But you already knew that. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to return some videotapes.
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