Did he really kill all of those people or was it all in his head?

>all in his head
I AIN'T HAPPY / I'M FEELING GLAD / I GOT SUNSHINE

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youtube.com/watch?v=r0qBaBb1Y-U

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>“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “I wrote you a poem.” I hand her the slip of paper. “Here.” I feel sick and broken, tortured, really on the brink. “Oh Patrick.” She smiles. “How sweet.” “Well, you know,” I say, looking down shyly. Bethany takes the slip of paper and unfolds it. “Read it,” I urge enthusiastically. She looks it over quizzically, puzzled, squinting, then she turns the page over to see if there’s anything on the back. Something in her understands it’s short and she looks back at the words written, scrawled in red, on the front of the page. “It’s like haiku, you know?” I say. “Read it. Go on.” She clears her throat and hesitantly begins reading, slowly, stopping often. “ ’The poor nigger on the wall. Look at him.’” She pauses and squints again at the paper, then hesitantly resumes. “ ’Look at the poor nigger. Look at the poor nigger… on… the… wall.’” She stops again, faltering, looks at me, confused, then back at the paper. “Go on,” I say, looking around for a waiter. “Finish it.” She clears her throat and staring steadily at the paper tries to read the rest of it in a voice below a whisper. “ ’Fuck him… Fuck the nigger on the wall…’” She falters again, then reads the last sentence, sighing. “ ’Black man… is… de… debil?’” The couple at the next table have slowly turned to gaze over at us. The man looks aghast, the woman has an equally horrified expression on her face. I stare her down, glaring, until she looks back at her fucking salad.

Post the part where he throws a dollar into an art student's coffee.

>suddenly I find myself eyeing a very pretty homeless girl sitting on the steps of a brownstone on Amsterdam, a Styrofoam coffee cup resting on the step below her feet, and as if guided by radar I move toward her, smiling, fishing around in my pocket for change. Her face seems too young and fresh and tan for a homeless person’s; it makes her plight all the more heartbreaking. I examine her carefully in the seconds it takes to move from the edge of the sidewalk to the steps leading up to the brownstone where she sits, her head bowed down, staring dumbly into her empty lap. She looks up, unsmiling, after she notices me standing over her. My nastiness vanishes and, wanting to offer something kind, something simple, I lean in, still staring, eyes radiating sympathy into her blank, grave face, and dropping a dollar into the Styrofoam cup I say, “Good luck.”
>Her expression changes and because of this I notice the book—Sartre—in her lap and then the Columbia book bag by her side and finally the tan-colored coffee in the cup and my dollar bill floating in it and though this all happens in a matter of seconds it’s played out in slow motion and she looks at me, then at the cup, and shouts, “Hey, what’s your goddamn problem?” and frozen, hunched over the cup, cringing, I stutter, “I didn’t… I didn’t know it was… full,” and shaken, I walk away, hailing a taxi, and heading toward Hubert’s in it I hallucinate the buildings into mountains, into volcanoes, the streets become jungles, the sky freezes into a backdrop, and before stepping out of the cab I have to cross my eyes in order to clear my vision. Lunch at Hubert’s becomes a permanent hallucination in which I find myself dreaming while still awake.

Dubsia?

youtube.com/watch?v=2hSK3ETc7YI

Very redpilling video about American Psycho.

What did he do with the coat hanger?

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