“It rubs the lotion on its skin….”
Every morning, I rise to the opening sequence of American Psycho (in my mind), in which serial killer Patrick Bateman details his optimal health regimen. Successful movie serial killers are meticulous; they do not smoke; they do not drink; their skin is flawless; they know how to preserve human flesh for extended periods of time and butcher people in their apartments without staining an all-white living room set. I do not joke; I live by the first two minutes of this movie.
Generally, I dwell in darkness. Due to the nature of blogging and my fear of searing UV rays, I slink from the outdoors, isolating myself from the realm of the living. By night, I am my own mortician; I work at a dark nightclub where I basically paint a clown face over my own to give the illusion of rosy-cheeked youth for better tips.
Welcome to my dungeon of shadows.
DAY
“I always use an aftershave lotion with little or no alcohol. Because alcohol dries your face out and makes you look older.” —Patrick Bateman
Given that Patrick Bateman’s face is as fresh as a Blade Runner replicant dumped from its jelly womb, the no-alcohol thing is my holy rule of thumb for everything I smear on my face. You would not believe how many products contain alcohol, including sunscreens, aloe gel, and practically anything that sprays. This basically limits my moisturizer to a tincture of Palmer’s Cocoa Butter Formula Skin Therapy Oil, a mix of mostly cocoa, sesame seed, and sunflower oils available at Duane Reade. Unfortunately now that I’m looking at the back of the box on Amazon, the second ingredient is isopropyl myristate, a compound derived from–curses!!!–alcohol and acid. My years-long quest for an alcohol-free moisturizer resumes. For the time being, it does reduce the appearance of wrinkles.
That I flatly ignore the above no-alcohol rule by consuming alcohol later in the day is called DENIAL, which is also a crucial ingredient in any skincare regimen. The point of skincare is to believe that one can counteract the forces of gravity, waning elastin, and thinning epidermis on the march toward death with topical gels. I integrate denial liberally into my routine, such as eliminating cigarettes and then Juuling furiously throughout the day. I then counteract the following inevitable breakout with Neutrogena On-the-Spot acne treatment, which is made of benzoyl peroxide, a substance so powerful that it bleaches my pillowcase. Whatever, it dries those fuckers out.
After a cup of coffee, I brush my teeth with a toothbrush and toothpaste. My boyfriend has this terrifying water flossing machinery H2O Floss, which resembles a dentist’s torture device and makes a chugging noise like an ancient motorboat but does a pretty good job of getting in those tiny spaces between the permanent retainer behind my bottom teeth. I am still trying to master this object without shooting water all over the bathroom, yet I can’t remember life without its hefty and commanding presence above the toilet. It has grown on me.
Occasionally it is necessary to leave the house in order to grocery shop or get tampons or whatever, so I wear a hat and apply sunscreen; in this one very rare instance, I’m using my fancy boyfriend’s UV ESSENTIEL CHANEL sunscreen which I will never buy for myself because it is $55 for one fluid ounce.
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