Bateman

Friday.  Did the routine eight-mile walk.  Returned to the abode, slipped into some black jeans and boots, grabbed the Moleskine and trekked out to the Conservatory again.  Chose to sit on the grass this time.  Took off my shoes and felt the strands of green leaves tickle slightly my bare feet.  Penned the rough draft of a new short story.  Pinned up my hair and the sun blazed against my neck.  I welcomed it though--every last bit of it.  Topped off the evening watching one of my favorite films, You've Got Mail, with an encore presentation of a real theatrical doozy, American Psycho.  While Christian Bale a.k.a. Patrick Bateman a.k.a. American Psycho fantasized about murders and executions, and 80s Wall Street yuppies sized up their male counterparts by the paper density of their business cards, I had myself the sweetest strawberries.  Because I'm strange like that.