My name is Patrick Bateman.

I live in the American Garden Buildings on West Eighty-First Street, on the eleventh floor. My name is Patrick Bateman, I am twenty-seven years old.

I believe in taking care of myself, in a balanced diet, in a rigorous exercise routine. In the morning, if my face is a little puffy, I’ll put on an ice pack while doing my stomach crunches. I can do a thousand now.

After I remove the icepack, I use a deep pore-cleanser lotion.

In the shower, I use a water-activated gel cleanser…

then a honey-almond body scrub…

and on the face, an exfoliating gel scrub.

Then I apply an herb mint facial masque which I leave on for ten minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine.

I always use an after-shave lotion with little or no alcohol, because alcohol dries your face out and makes you look older.

Then moisturizer… 

then an anti-aging eye balm, followed by a final moisturizing “protective” lotion.

There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours, and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable…

I simply am not there.