My mother used to grind up shrooms and put them in my milk... I have strange memories of growing up, and I am terrified of hanging mobiles now.
You're not the kind of person who lets physical handicaps get in your way, but that's because you're a flesh-eating zombie.
In the sphere of thought, absurdity and perversity remain the masters of the world, and their dominion is suspended only for brief periods.
There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no "real me", only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.