A REFLECTION ON THE EXISTENCE OF PATRICK BATEMAN*, STRUGGLING WRITER

I live in a poorly-maintained brownstone on East 5th Street on the second floor. My name is Patrick Bateman. I’m 26 years old. I believe in choosing between taking care of myself, a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise routine. In the morning if my hair is in my face I’ll put on a bandana while debating whether I want to do stomach crunches. I can do 50 now before losing interest. After I remove the bandana I use an expired Albuterol inhaler. In the shower I use anti-dandruff Vive For Men Pro shampoo, then Duane Reade store brand moisturizing bar soap on my body as well as my face. Then I gargle Duane Reade store brand fresh mint antiseptic mouthwash, which I endure for 10 minutes while I try to remember the rest of my routine. I always use CVS Pharmacy store brand acne wipes that are saturated with alcohol; they are unquestionably drying my face out and making me look older. Then Dove moisturizer, then a prescription anti-rash skin ointment followed by as many as six Q-tips. There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some sideshow attraction, and that’s really me, embodying entropy, something real sorry, and though I can sometimes stay awake all day and you can shake my hand and feel flesh that was possibly washed that afternoon and maybe you can pretend our lifestyles are remotely comparable: I … I’m sorry, I completely forgot what I was saying.

* Name changed to protect the author.