I live in the American Gardens building
on West 81st Street, on the 11th floor. My name is Patrick Bateman. I’m 27 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 1, 000 now. After I remove the ice pack, 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 mask, which I leave on for ten minutes
while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use an aftershave 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.