When I was about 8 or 9 years old, I went to the library every Saturday; borrowed books and returned them after a week. One day, I borrowed- tough like that- a book about ice mummies. I don't know if any of you have ever compared an ice mummy to a normal, dried one but I can assure you, the icey ones look fucking creepy. Long story cut short- I refused to open the book once more after seeing the first frozen dead face, I felt uncomfortable when I had to be alone in a room with it and I only agreed to read the short story- based on true events- that came after the documentary part when my sister had stuck post-its over all the photos in the book. The short story was about 19th century sailors who set sail to the north pole and all died there. One of them was 23 years old, blonde and excited for the journey and he was wearing a pretty, yellow scarf that his sister gave him as a present before the ship took off. Years have passed and I still remember the frozen face without eyelids and lips and with a yellow scarf tied around the light blue neck. I remember wondering if the scarf really was a present, if the sister- given that he had one- was told that her brother died or could only guess it. I was about 8 or 9 back then.
Now I'm 22 and I couldn't care less. I see violence in the news, I see cruelties and deaths all over the internet, I just read American Psycho and I'm totally unimpressed. In fact, I can hardly handle my own aggression and my wish to smash everything on my way. In fact, I can relate to Pat Bateman.