Patrick Bateman, American Millennial

Reluctantly, I signed up for Instagram. My handle is @pbatemanNYC. My biography, (or bio as these community college idiot “influencers,” insist on calling it) is “Harvard Business School ‘14 // UWS.” Evelyn says I should put something more fun, but why? I follow no one, not even her, which she constantly reams me over our weekly dinner at Per Se or Daniel. I have twelve thousand followers. I can’t imagine a cesspool of more classless, tasteless idiots than that app’s user base. Except maybe the crowd of a party in Bushwick. Or is it Ridgewood these days?

I will say, it has done wonders for my SEO and is by far the easiest way to get laid. My google search was beginning to cause some problems. Some women were using sex worker forums to warn each other about my unusual behaviors. Thankfully, my man Donald officially passed SESTA/FOSTA, which immediately wiped all of those incriminating websites from the internet and cleared my name. Good luck warning each other now. Thank god it’s 2018 and I can just admit that I hate women and keep going about my business, which is doing incredibly well — I recently closed two new accounts.

Daily, sometimes twice, I work out at Equinox. Always the Tribeca location. It’s not conveniently located to my apartment in any way but has by far the most attractive and wealthy clientele. After three years of loyal membership (the all-locations option of course, which comes to nearly $5000 a year before any additional personal training, which I tend to do on Tuesdays and Thursdays with a Botox-heavy trainer) I nearly canceled my membership. I think it was around New Year’s Day. I hate the new year at the gym, predominantly because all of the lazy, fat people who join and take up space before inevitably quitting. I almost lost it after they ran their yearly campaign COMMIT TO SOMETHING , plastering billboards of a woman cradling two kids in an evening gown, breastfeeding them. Can you imagine using anything more repugnant to promote the image of a gym?

My love for Donald Trump as a businessman, something I’ve proudly claimed for nearly a decade, has more recently become controversial — for obvious reasons. I look great in red, especially with a tan. While I can’t bring myself to wear a cheaply made, MAGA hat with fraying threads on the underside of the bill, even in solidarity, I purchased a red baseball cap by Balenciaga at Bergdorf Goodman as a subtle stand-in. It was $350. The fold of the bill curves perfectly to frame my face while shielding my skin from the sun to prevent aging in addition to the sunscreen I’ve ordered from Korea and Juvederm injections I am now getting thrice annually. When a liberal comments positively on my most recent selfie in said hat, I feel a tinge of victory. If only they knew what they’ve just co-signed.

My tan is currently the result of a combination of Clarins Self Tanner lotion, one Kate Somerville tanning towel, and daily use of the Glossier highlighter — whose feminist and body positive politics aside, is a very high-quality product that never clogs my pores. Sometimes I search for hardbodies promoting their 20% off code on Instagram to DM and sleep with. Easy catch.

Last year, at the suggestion of this round — definitely real — assed artist chick I met in Williamsburg, I wrote an article for Pitchfork on the 20th anniversary of Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody.” My following increased significantly after it was published and has continued to grow. She sold me on the idea after I talked her ear off, coked out of course, about Whitney when we were at a warehouse space that was later co-opted by VICE Media. I actually hate the place but I keep an arsenal of connections at avant-garde, scabies-infested venues in case I want to impress and fuck a girl from some tertiary art school like Pratt or even Eugene Lang. Some hipster in the comments doubted that a “yuppie” could speak on this work of art so I found him at Max Fish and later slashed his throat after following him to a bar on the Bowery. There is absolutely no singer, alive or dead, who has the range and discography of Whitney Houston. While I am repulsed by any drug use outside of cocaine, I did find the Daytona album cover offensive.

I despise when I’ve got a hardbody in my bed and she wants to watch some television. It’s not that I’m not equipped to accommodate this — albeit, juvenile — request. I have an Apple TV hooked up to my Samsung QLED TV. It has over a billion shades of quantum color and cost $6,000 on special order direct from the brand. It’s just that I take my Netflix algorithm very seriously. I only want to be served titles that I am fairly certain I will enjoy. At this rate, when I’m not out too late, or, busy… though sometimes after that I do like to indulge in a late ‘90s action movie, something of the Die Hard variety, I am watching up to five movies a week. I’m debating creating a secondary profile on my account, the premium plan, specifically for this circumstance. Though the potential downsides, things like Evelyn seeing Christie’s selections would lead to questions about who has been over and fuck this will never work. I miss video rental stores. I almost enjoyed how cost inefficient they were and the routine of it all. Netflix doesn’t have The Patty Winters Show and it really only makes sense to watch at latest, one day after it airs anyway.

I’ve decided to change my bio to “🔪🔪🔪 murders & acquisitions.”

Puns do translate so much better via text.