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 icepack 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 bodyscrub.
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 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 life styles are probably comparable,
I simply am not there.