I live in a one-bedroom studio apartment in New York because houses cost money and I'm a hippie. My name is Patrick Bateman.

I'm 27 years old. I believe in taking care of myself with a well-balanced and plant-based vegan diet and a rigorous exercise routine.

In the morning, if my face is a little puffy, I put real ice cubes on my forehead while I practice yoga and mindfully raging at carnists. I can hold a screaming pigeon pose and manifest hatred upon fur farms. I can do it for a thousand hours now.

After my face gets redder than the devil's ass, I splash some water on it. In the shower, I use more water, then also water, and on the face? Only water.

I don't use any type of corporate cleaning products because I want everyone who comes near me to be enveloped in my smell, the deep notes of my pheromones, and so I match the typical vegan stereotype. I will not pollute my essence with parabins. Patchouli oozes from my lilly white pours.

Then I apply a vegan jackfruit enzyme mask which I leave on for 10 minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I don't have to use any aftershave lotion because removing animal suffering from my life has purified my body in every way possible. I do not grow any facial hair. Body hair is the mark of contamination and my alopecia is a blessing.

The vegans I know beg me to take vitamins and eat beans, but I know better than that. I eat a diet of mostly raw beyond meat and kale. Plant-based capitalism is the natural evolution of veganism and it is a supreme ideology.

Veganism should be centered on individual consumer decisions instead of petty moralism. All animals deserve a life of suffering to the same extent. As a moderate progressive, I celebrate torturing every living creature equally.

More screaming pigeons followed by me tweeting about how carnists are murderers and terrible people unlike me. I then send my daily death threats, this time to a local food pantry for distributing honey.

There is an idea of a vegan 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 you can tell me plants feel pain and maybe you can sense our lifestyles are probably comprable… I simply do not care.