desperately needed a VIP lift in my life. I turned off ESPN. I sewed the Kenzo label on my jeans, I taxied myself to the club that I had heard should I gain access, and they would treat me nice. I stood in line with the population that I would soon be partying with once indoors. I gained access.

I ordered stiff drinks, and in rapid succession, as I needed a deeply inflated ego to fit in with those boorish, trendy philistines sulking about. On the way here, I made sure to buy my spiky belt, and I got a hipster haircut earlier at Lid Lounge (I'd heard nonconformists can be subjected to internment or torture).

Apparently my shoes gave me away, and I spent the majority of the night being interrogated in the bar's basement (the trapdoor to which drops the suspect clubgoers).

However, I escaped, and ran to what appeared to be a glassed-in room, a fish tank of sorts, with a sweet looking crowd - I didn't see any of them in the line - and puffy couches. Oh...finally, a place for nonconformists to curl up with well-tended super-models, in the club, in the dark, lying to one another about their pasts (refer to yearbooks), making canned comments about [insert social concern], and waiting for a trend to come along that will allow for slightly more comfortable pants to provide them with a fragile sense of social adherence and belonging. . .