In Da House

As an animal driven by a fluctuating maelstrom of wants and desires, pushed and pulled by wave upon wave of mixed media stimuli, it can sometimes take a while to distill the things that you really want from the things you just want right now.

This ongoing process of filtering has recently revealed one indisputable, irrefutable, and hard to swallow home truth; I really want to be a member of Shoreditch house.

Of course, this desire will have flitted across the mental landscapes of many people. Others won't know what I'm talking about. They are entirely possibly the lucky ones, for proximity to the seductive flame of this particular institution probably means that you are some kind of participant in the merry go round of being young, urban, possibly well off, plausibly good looking, occasionally encumbered by tangential links to glamour and celebrity, and menaced day and night by attempting to further some or all of the above facets of your existence.

And that's the thing; I don't want to be a member of Shoreditch house. I know that there are lots of nice places to drink in london, the food's in there's ok at best, the service is slow, and it's full of cunts.

However, I do want to be a member of Shoreditch house. The reasons are simple; despite being well thought of amongst my friends, popular, friendly, funny, and all that stuff, I know that the posession of this one little card will really reinforce how succesful, wealthy, and downright cool I really am. Even though some of this (wealthy in particular) is very far from the truth.

And that's how simple it really is, no matter that your friends have smelt your farts, seen you puke, possibly holding your hair back as you do it, knew you when you were broke, and are still happy to be seen with you despite all of this, you must for some reason continue to tirelessly further inflate yourself in their already reasonably adoring eyes. Or worse still, to inflate yourself in the eyes of those who you haven't met yet, may casually encounter, and need another card to play to reassure them that you really are 'the shit', or, as they will most likely conclude either a; 'a dick' or b; 'just like them', which entirely possibly mean that in fact you are also a; a 'dick'.

Oscar Wilde once said that he wouldn't want to join any club that would have him as a member. Perhaps rejection will be my only saviour from this particular monster.

It's either that or opt out by getting work to pay, and pretending that I didn't gently and discreetly and in the darkest moments of the night, campaign for it for months. Justify, young man justify...