Patrick Bateman is a New York-based hedge fund manager.

I’m trying to enjoy my new Apple Watch Edition but Evelyn, my so-called fiancée, keeps buzzing me with Facebook messages. Something about Terry Richardson.

I focus on the black leather, the 18-carat yellow gold, the way it looks on my tanned wrist. I appreciate that it is wipe clean. I ask Siri to dictate a message: Paul Allen is out of town for a few days. Siri, I say, play Sussudio.

I live in New York by Gehry on 8 Spruce Street on the 35th floor. My name is Patrick Bateman. I’m 27 years old. I believe in taking care of myself, a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise routine.

I pick up the Apple Watch from its charger beside the bed and strap it on. I measure the weight of it, pleasingly solid. I appreciate the lack of cables.

I put an ice pack on my face, and get down to do my stomach crunches. I can do a thousand now. As I exercise, the Apple Watch is there, quietly measuring them.

There is an idea of Patrick Bateman. Some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me. Only an entity. Something illusory. Apple would tell you otherwise. It believes the Watch can track not just movements but emotions.

Evelyn sends me a smiley face and asks to share my heartbeat. I ignore it. I appreciate the screen. Study the typeface – San Francisco. Tasteful, clean.

Ed Gein – the serial killer, not the maitre d’ – said, “When I see a pretty girl walking down the street I think two things. One part of me wants to take her out and talk to her and be real nice and sweet and treat her right. The other thinks, what would her head look like on a stick?

I do not want to dissect the Apple Watch. I enjoy the smoothness, the shine, the clarity. It is not how it works but what it looks like that matters to me. What it looks like to people who see it on my wrist.

Lunch at La Bernadin. I can feel Van Patten and Bryce admiring the Apple Watch. Then Van Patten tells me Paul Allen has one. He says the yellow gold suits Allen’s coloring. I start to sweat.

Evelyn sends me another smiley. The big yellow emoji remind me of this dream I had about a girl, a dog and a copy of Bobby McFerrin’s ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’. Should hardbodies buy the Apple Watch? I don’t care.

Later, on my way over to Park Avenue to find a cab I pass an ugly, homeless bum. He is wearing an old Swatch and I notice a cracked Kindle on the steps beside him. I can’t help but smirk, out loud, ‘Oh right, like YOU need a watch…,”

At home later, my female guests are gone and I am alone. I wipe the face of the Apple Watch and place it back on the charger. I like how it looks.

Still, the device is missing a killer app. That’s something about which I have more than a little expertise.

As dictated to Mic Wright. For more on Patrick Bateman head here.

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