I cannot live with myself a moment more. My life is a farce – I am a charlatan; a sham; a phony. I am the bloated rat that steals the eyes of your sleeping child. I vend vivacity; I wheeler deal what I call the realest deal; but it is false. I spin an elaborate web of silken lies. I blind myself to the suffering I cause - like the operator of an unmanned drone, I am divorced from the residuum of my actions.
I am setter of traps; regretful poacher. I am club promoter. “Last 50 tickets!!!!” I posted at 11:52 on the 2nd October; at 11:53 I wept. Tickets abound – my clutch bag overflows with them; they dribble to the floor like the ejaculations of clumsy, inebriated youths. I coax you out from your damp, but fundamentally warm, bedroom. I steal your soul for a pound commission. Stay in! Drink cocoa and replenish the state of your liver. Watch RuPaul’s Drag Race with your flatmates; bond while pondering how to view it through an intersectional feminist lens.
Nobody is going to care if you’re not at Koko, or Piccadilly Institute, or whatever desolate pheromone soaked catacomb I’m enticing you into. Cheap drinks! But what is the price? Top DJs! But aren’t they all wankers really? I implore you to ignore me. Save me the torment of success.
BEST CLUB NIGHT IN LONDON! Yeah right.
FREE SHOTS FOR EVERYONE! Watered down pal.
There will be nothing. Nothing.
Come down on Thursday night though yeah, should be a good night!