We’re All American Psychos
April 2nd, 2025
Photo: Natalia James
Writer: Emily Kauderer
Editor: Talia Kohn
I live in Ann Arbor, Michigan, in my sorority house on the second floor. My name is Emily Kauderer, and I am 20 years old. I believe in taking care of my health, which starts the night before.
In the morning, I remove my silk eye mask and hydrogel eye patches—essential for a well-rested look. Then comes the mouth tape and nose clenchers; why waste effort breathing when a product can do it for you? I unwind my satin heatless curlers to reveal effortless curls, the kind that look like I woke up with them. Natural. Organic. Pure.
Next, I put on my face: exfoliate, cleanse, tone, and moisturize with First Aid Beauty Ultra Repair Cream. Frozen gel primer, Flawless Filter pre-foundation, then foundation, concealer, more concealer, cream bronzer, liquid blush, pink powder, banana powder, brightening powder, translucent powder. I let it bake for ten minutes.
Once my face is complete, I assemble my uniform. Levi’s ‘94 Baggy Wide Leg Jeans in Medium Indigo. A white T-shirt. An oversized sweater—navy, burgundy, or a slightly oversized light blue shade. Miniature brown chestnut Uggs. A cropped Super Puff jacket in black. A Longchamp Original Navy Tote was slung over my shoulder.
There is an idea of Emily Kauderer, but there is no real me. Only an entity—an Instagram profile, a Pinterest account—something illusionary. You can shake my perfectly manicured hand, feel my flesh grip yours, and maybe even sense that our lifestyles are comparable. Yet sometimes, I wonder if I’m even there at all.
In a lecture hall, I see versions of myself lining the aisles: the same jeans, the same Uggs, the same curated “effortless” aesthetic. We move through campus with the same shared aura, simultaneously “in” and yet longing for a stronger sense of individuality.
This isn't a new feeling. Patrick Bateman tried to deconstruct it 25 years ago—except his stage was 1980s Wall Street, not a college campus in 2025. He became consumed by status, by details so microscopic they became the only things that mattered.
The business card scene captures this perfectly. Bateman unveils his card—eggshell white, Silian Rail lettering, subtle embossing- a thing of beauty. But when someone else reveals theirs, and then another, each nearly identical card reveals unbearable differences.. His brow dampens. His hands shake. He spirals, undone by the slight variation in a sea of sameness.
Today, our "business cards" are not pieces of cardstock but the products we display—the exact cut of our jeans, the brand of our puffer jacket, the placement of a logo on our boots. We have become obsessed with perfecting the details of conformity, terrified of standing out in the wrong way. We fear taking risks, failing, and being judged. So instead, we opt for safety, for sameness. For eggshell white business cards, for chestnut brown Uggs.
Perhaps Patrick Bateman was onto something. Maybe the scariest thing isn’t being different; rather, it is the realization that you’re not.
