Novel Critique

I need your opinion of the content I wrote below. I wrote when under the influence of lsd, and am unsure of the coherency of it. I will not provide the plot, as I am more so interested in your opinions as you would normally read it. It is titled Disdain. I have more then 20,000 words written thus far. This is a rough draft.

As to Why I Am
Though I never had an explicit appreciation for violence, I have always been driven in favor of men who employ such methods of efficiency to gain proficient desires. Desire that renders progression. Acts of ruthlessness and the disregard for the lesser of people – solely utilized with the intent of achievement – enthrall my motivation for the achievement of my own desires; moreover, enhances the development of motivation. I realize such a disposition is antithetical to the creation and preservation of a placid society. I correlate placidity among boring virtues (although, yes, creation – of wealth, of intellect – can come from the bowels of ennui) and as such, I have disparagement for it purely predicated upon the lack of entertainment it provides me. That is why – when left to my own devices, unguided by the steel rails of agenda – I attempt calculated ‘degeneracy’ for its own sake; normally at the expenditure of others. I blame them for investing too much into me.
If ethicality is, indeed, subjective, then why is it considered of prodigious evil to impose my morality upon another; especially if my morality proves more proficient? Because something that insinuates superiority must be, at the least, obliquely bigoted. The amount of absence of acceptance of all fellow humans’ individual idiosyncrasies – especially those defined as minority – is somehow a metric of what makes an evil man. I am therefore considered a grand producer of evil by this society; of course, not publicly recognizable, for what calculated man who recognizes this societal normative does not thereupon hide his true propensities?
Cont...

As to Why I Am Cont...
When one is born in L.A., they are indoctrinated with the notion of subjective morality as though it be a concrete metaphysical statement. I, unfortunately, render this statement unfalsifiable. My mother was a “peace and love” hippy: grown from the disgusting counter culture of the 1970s, with hypodermic needle scars as proof of the nurturing that decade gave her. My father, a draft dodger – a coward – was a professor of anthropology at USC. As most academics, he was a leftist, an implicit Marxist, a self-titled “champion of the HDI.” I believed his claims of greatness and credibility; what child doesn’t look to their father and wonder upon the immensity of their authority? My eighteenth birthday ended with me looking him in the eye and telling “I would have appreciated you more if you’d taken a bullet to the head in Cambodia” after he had been drunkly blubbering about the evils of European imperialism in Africa. O why this disdain for authoritative institution and “social constructs,” yet they look to equality as a desired dynamic? Egalitarianism is fully predicated upon an arbitrary desire (the foundation of a social construct) for individual equality – whether in the context of physical ability, opportunity, or justice. Apparently my preference of tradition (of patriarchy, of cultural superiority – or moreover the believe in respective cultural inferiority) angered my father; I was homeless until my twentieth birthday as a result. This is not a biographical description of my lethargic past, but a contextualization of what I will be remembered by: cleansing.

Chapter One: Sexual Malice
I have never understood why prostitution is held by the moral with malice, for if happiness is the predicate of positive human condition, then it would seem it should be rejoiced by all. The solicitation of sex is much less stressing than the act of relationship building, especially with the modern breed of sex-desiring women – whom are very much facile and concerned with contemporary, short-term comfort. The vast majority of them are relatively sympathetic to suffering; however, this is not because of inherent, genuine concern, but because it renders them uncomfortable. They offer corrective rhetoric – most of it useless because of the emotional element that was the constructor of such notions. The societal normative of romance is to bond with one of these creatures and merge into a singular entity of love and rejoice; the fruit of which are graceful children and a contribution to the stability of society. I was never able to experience this dynamic. Every plutonic and romantic involvement I’ve had with a woman has always induced discomfort: they are always trying to apply change where it isn’t needed to induce comfort; moreover, trying to hide within a carefully built bubble of fake success – just as they hide their hideous faces in the powders and dyes they so utterly adore because these items allow them to adore themselves. I do realize this experience is majorly because of the young age of my past partners, who were slightly younger than me. At that age, sex is the pinnacle of existence, so to achieve sexual relations with an attractive man, a girl would need to cloak herself in the powders and dyes they deemed necessary to reach self-actualization. How pitiful of an actualization that must be – one built upon the superficial. Whores are no different in the same aspect of shallow beauty; however, whores do not ask you to change, they do not express their discomfort, nor do they burden you with their individual issues. Their concern: pleasuring the client for a much smaller capital obligation. There is a mutual exchange of service that, once concluded, leaves both parties more or less satisfied – something that a conventional relationship does not conjure. Don’t assume me a hedonist – I am not – I merely recognize the correlation between mental health and sexual activity (perchance I had read too much Freud in undergraduate years). I have yet to be dissatisfied by this method of amorousness and am therefore inclined to believe it will not carry me on the hedonistic treadmill: a perpetuating cycle of frustration and lack of gratification that I found myself on when following the conventional schematic of ‘love.’

Chapter One Cont...
I am to be meeting my colleague, a fellow law student at the University of Chicago by the name Jean Luc Marlent at the Logan Square CPA station so as to go to a favorite solicitor of ardor: a run-down townhouse in Logan Square. I normally don’t seek this type of activity on a Thursday night, but he insisted on account of my twenty-seventh birthday. It’s a funny thing: the celebration of something so arbitrary, but if it makes those close to me happy, I cannot be opposed.
“How the hell are you doing, Bishop!?” he greets me in regular fashion. My name is not Bishop – that is the nickname I received because of my false religious proclivity: Catholicism. He knows this fakeness. Everyone in our group of pretentious fucks does. We all have “show ideology,” which is to say we all deceptively abide by conventionalities so as to appear favorable to the public. We are all aspiring politicians after all – bleeding heart Democrats.
“Why don’t we Uber to the place? It’s 1:20am and it’s a 20-minute walk, and goddamnit I’m tired.” He said.
“I prefer to walk; it is interesting seeing this city’s essence; besides, we have to talk.”
“About?”
“Albert.”
“I invited him, but said he couldn’t make it”
“He is running for representative in the 54th district; he may be psychotic, but he realizes that it would not be conducive to public approval if he were caught at a whore house. As you know, the public thinks sex is terrifying.”
“No shit. He had been talking about its potential for the past year. Does he have party approval?”
“Of course he does… They pushed him into succeeding Dr. Mohet after his pig of a wife died. He is overridden by grief.”
“I know; I’ve been his emotional crutch, sadly. I thought you liked Dr. Mohet; he has always been so kind to me at least.”
“I do, but his wife leeched on him and took energy from him and made him distracted. When I am under the guidance of a man, I prefer he prioritizes the agenda by which I am used for.”
Jean looked at me, then at the ground with blankness. I can tell he was under the influence of MDMA and alcohol, and he knew I knew. He is the only one in our group that enjoys these hedonist substances. I consider them degenerative. They destroy motivation. I constantly nag for him to stop – not due to my personal concern for his wellbeing, but since I have too much invested in him. I try to abstain from relying even moderately on people, but he picked me up during hardship when I was in D.C., and I cannot help but trust someone who has done so much for me. The silence continues; the conversation would continue with his sobriety.
The brothel was as it usually stands: a bleak and insignificant structure that had mediocrity seeping from the masonry. I generally do not care about physical appearance (of people or items); the deeper, substantive notions of what is manifested from the item or person is where my concern focuses.

Chapter One Cont...
The only reason I am wearing a $4599.86 suit, $299.00 belt, $179.50 tie, $51.39 socks, and $560.00 shoes is so that I may be recognized as ordinary by my peers. But every occasion I had entering the brothel, I could not help but realize the mediocrity of my own sexuality. Something so beautiful and fulfilling as sex should not transpire in dirt. However, seeing that I have this lovely addiction for sexual contact, I must sacrifice personal preference in preference of a greater preference.
The whore I initially received complimented me on my shoes; therefore, I asked for another. I could not stand to fuck someone who was shallow – even if it was contrived from her desire to please me. Yes, I realize the hypocrisy of my actions: I was utilizing a human being purely for the purpose of sex. One must understand though that she was being paid via my desire. She was not in bondage. I was aiding her livelihood. Just as a man might be dissatisfied with meat due to its odor, I was dissatisfied with that whore due to its mouth. The replacement was graceful. She did not speak. Her method of practice reminded me of the whores from D.C. in the way that they understood their position. They did not speak for they knew who their clients were: men of authority: men who wanted nothing but a moment of hedonist pleasure so that they may escape their actuality for a short while in preference of animalist fury. My whore had soft lips; I kissed them, but not for my love of her but for my love of the action itself – intimacy – even though I have no romantic interest for women. I concluded the session in thirty minutes as did Jean. Unlike other men, who become docile (I assume) at the culmination of sex, I am overwhelmed by vehemence and craving to achieve. It is my organic narcotic.

I would like to state that these are not my personal beliefs.
>inb4 /pol/tard

In regards to the first couple of posts the ideas expressed need to be cleaned up. At first it feels like you are trying to make one point and then somewhere you abruptly stop talking about it and pick up something unrelated as if it's a logical continuation. I won't criticise the consistency of the ideas which are replete with enormous unsubstantiated logical leaps and incongruities because this is the philosophy of a character, and not philosophy as such. I will say that you need to slow it down, eliminate half of what you are talking about to give you time to be clear about what you mean with the remaining half.

As something like a first draft I quite like the narrative. It's got a little too much of Moore's circumlocutory gutter style to it. It needs to be heavily reduced. If you took everything you have written and cut it down to 1/4 of what you have I think you would be starting to have something. It reminds me of some mixture of Mishima and Ellis.

The protagonist is schizophrenic, which shall be revealed later. The absurdity of his thought is what I am pointing at. But yes, I agree. What parts should be reduced?

american psycho

It is the opposite... Bates enjoys materials, it fives him shallow pleasure...