My name is Alan Philips. I am thirty years old. I live in Dwell 95 on Wall Street and Water Street on the nineteenth floor, Chace Crawford lives in the penthouse. I believe in taking care of myself – with an unbalanced diet of liquor, legal stimulants, and obscure gastronomic delights. I like to follow this with juice fasts and a rigorous exercise routine that makes me feel rejuvenated. In the morning, when my face is a little puffy, I'll splash it with freezing cold water, Nickel Day Spa’s morning rescue gel or Kiehl’s Facial Fuel, followed by a Kiehl’s anti-wrinkle Facial Fuel. After a night of excess, I drink a Starbucks Venti iced green tea, unsweetened, an Emergen-C, and a shot of espresso. I skim the NY Post and read my horoscope and then read it again on my Blackberry’s horoscope app, for a second opinion. I then read the horoscope of the people I care about; inevitably I confuse it with my own and end up living someone else’s life.
When the caffeine finally takes effect, I stretch and go for a run on the treadmill. I used to run three miles, now I can do four or five, depending on the activities of the night before – the more excessive, the more motivated I am to run for a cure. I am fighting a battle of attrition against age, one which I will inevitably lose. This battle provides a sense of self that gives my life comfortable meaning, until I find what I am looking for.
There used to be an idea of “Alan Philips” – some kind of abstraction, but no real me – only an entity, something illusory. I hide my cold gaze and you have shook my hand feeling flesh gripping you, maybe you even sensed our lifestyles were comparable. Despite this, I was simply not there.
It used to be hard for me to make sense on any given level, but now everything makes too much sense. My self and my existence are real in every way; so real that it becomes painful at times. I feel overwhelmingly lucky when I open my eyes – an aberration in today’s world. My personality, formerly businesslike and focused, has become perplexing and unpredictable, a product of my dedication to the journey. Once heartlessness and lack of feeling were comforts, but that comfort no longer exists. My conscience and hopes have reawakened by an understanding of, and a connection to, my past and my ideals.
As I admit this: there is a catharsis. I have gained deeper knowledge of myself and extracted more new knowledge from my telling. There is every reason for me to tell you all of this. This confession has meant everything...
He gives a last look at the mirror and likes what he sees. He gives his reflection a smile.
This is not the end, it is just the beginning.
See you next time at Cocktail Hour, where more often than not one drink turns into ten and no one knows where and when the night will end.
-AP, American Psycho