I live in the Nema Building on 10th Street on the 23rd floor in an apartment that costs $5950 a month. My name is Patrick Bateman. I’m 27 years old. I believe in taking care of myself and a balanced diet and rigorous exercise routine.
In the morning if my face is a little puffy I’ll put on an ice pack made from pure Hetch Hetchy water while doing stomach crunches. I can do 1000 now. After I remove the ice pack I use a face cleanser I buy from the Orogold store on Market St. for $1,500. In the shower I use a $35 anti-aging gel cleanser, then a $13.59 Himalayan bath salt cleanser, and on the face an olive- and grape-seed oil cleanser I purchase for $20. I have found this routine to be very expensive to maintain, but it is so worth it. San Francisco is a beehive of activity. It is really, really, really hot. In fact, today I learned that it is the most expensive place in the nation for me to keep up my yuppie lifestyle. This is fine with me.
After I step out of the bathroom, I am careful not to allow any of the blood from Johnson’s corpse to stain mySmoothotron 3000 disco kimono. I killed her. I killed her with a kitchen knife. Then I drank a Tumerick Mylk from Project: Juice made from raw almonds and Medjool dates. It cost $56 for six pack. It was energizing.
After my morning exercise and cleansing routine, I put on my Taylor Stitch Moss Sanded Mechanic shirt, since I find its slightly rough to the touch canvas to be reminiscent of the physical labor that the digital age has outgrown. It also pairs very forthrightly with my black canvas Japants 2.0 from Betabrand, which I purchased online the very same day they went on sale. You have to be alert to discover limited edition pants of this quality. I then brew a double shot of Kenya Karagota espresso from Four Barrel using myJapanese FINO kettle to heat the water to the precisely required temperature. I applaud the Kenyan’s growing sustainability. You know what else is sustainable? Corpses.
After my morning routine, I board the private shuttle bus which ferries me to my Mountain View office. I find the bus protestors to be overblown in their rhetoric. If the buses truly were luxurious, we would have wifi speeds far in excess of the 54 Mps we currently receive. Unless the bus has been delayed by protestors, I arrive at the offices’ of the technology firm where I work as senior digital trend ninja precisely at 7:45 am. Johnson was only an associate digital trend ninja, and that is why I killed her. I like to dissect girls. I am insane. I am also trying to disrupt social.
I am creating value. I am a maker. My Klout score is well into the nineties. My network is resilient. I build the internet of things. I am Web 4.0. I have never needed to beta test an app I built. My series A funding was the highest in my class at Y Combinator. I am organizing the world’s information—splitting open the globe with a solid swing of an axe, and letting the data flow out of it like blood. I iterate and iterate and iterate. Then I kill. Then I iterate again.
After a day of work, I return to Central Market, where I prefer to dine either at Daniel Patterson’s Alta CA—it’s thoughtful for an American brasserie to include techno-amenities like power sockets—or at the Cavalier,which serves an exceptional Welsh rarebit souffle, albeit a touch pricy at $13 dollars. Sometimes I see Willie Brown, and we discuss fedoras.
Do you like the band Train?
Their early work was a little too light rock for my tastes, but when Save Me, San Francisco came out in ‘09, I think they really came into their own, commercially and artistically. The whole album has a clear, crisp sound, and a new sheen of consummate professionalism that really gives the songs a big boost. They’ve been compared to Maroon Five, but I think Train has a far more bitter, cynical sense of humor. I think their undisputed masterpiece is “Hey, Soul Sister,” a song so catchy, most people probably don’t listen to the lyrics.
I like to pick up women to kill at Hakkasan. I’d go to Tosca, but I don’t like not being able to get reservations and I can barely afford $42 for half a roast chicken. Plus Hakkasan is closer to my apartment. I have all the characteristics of a human being: blood, flesh, skin, hair; but not a single, clear, identifiable emotion, except for greed and disgust.
Wait a minute. $42 for a half a roast chicken? This may be too much. There’s no way out. I’m trapped in a ever-expanding cycle of rising rents and rising prices. It is impossible for me to maintain the facade.
I’m thinking of moving to Oakland.