Bret Easton Ellis is a douchebag.

No.

If you like Bret Easton Ellis, you are a douchebag.

It baffles me as to how many of you self-obsessed morons have deluded yourselves into actually thinking you have anything in common with that world or the people who reside in it. And I am even more dumbfounded by how many of you think that by liking Bret Easton Ellis you are this literary insider in a back room where everyone drinks heavily, smokes Parliaments, and laughs at the “ignorance” of modern American society. You are absofuckinglutely not. You are a douchebag.

And that goes for you Jay McInerney enthusiasts as well.

Hell, I shouldn’t have to defend my blanket statement as this is the sensational age of internet where anyone is able to make generalities, but I’ll go ahead and do it. It’ll be fun, like telling my girlfriend she should consider hiring a trainer. That the elliptical is only going to help so much. That the cupcake she splurged on isn’t going to pack its bags and leave on its own, but that I will.

You may be able to be that kid in high school, carrying around your unread paperback copy of Less than Zero to your honors English class, or even stretch it into college when you shit on everyone tailgating the football game from your Facebook page while drinking PBR and listening to Antlers. But sooner or later you’re going to stumble into the real world where you are no longer able to hide behind those wayfarers and must confront that bisexual, drug-addicted reflection, that whole Yale thing, staring back at you from the mirror in the bathroom at Home Sweet Home or Dorian’s.

I don’t buy into that jaded youth bullshit. Who the fuck do you think you are? Clay? Well, when was the last time you watched your friends sodomize pre-pubescent girls? And making chauvinistic comments to the 22-year old Loyola grad at Brass Monkey while your Brown girlfriend is back home watching Clockwork Orange doesn’t mean you’re on your slow descent into insanity, or that you’re “the man.” She has herpes and you’re going to be itching your balls for the rest of your life if they don’t fall off.

Face it, most of you Oliver Peoples-wearing, Goldman Sachs-duffel-toting summer interns read Ellis (or more than likely have watched the movie versions) because Clay and the Batemans is your way of vicariously fulfilling some misplaced childhood fantasy that you had of being a disaffected, coke-addled introvert, wandering aimlessly at three in the morning while having these profound insights as to why you’ll never be happy. VICARIOUSLY.

Other than asking your barber for that layered haircut, you dumbshits are too scared to actually do the damn thing. It isn’t hard to find a ball and purchase a few sharp knives or a gun. I’ll hold my tongue, shit, I’ll cut if off when you or your best friend is shooting up and whoring yourself out.

Until then, shut up. Quit quoting Christian Bale. Stop referencing Ellis as your favorite author. And for god’s sake, go to sleep. You’re throwing up all over a good library of work.

Now please excuse me while I go polish off this gram in the office bathroom. Everyone’s looking at me and all I’m trying to do is fit in.