It was an indie club, on a Wednesday night, where they play popular indie music, all supposedly unsigned, with a great distaste for Lilly Allen's support of record companies. Their Myspace pages are all over Facebook.
But I think Myspace is a record label for the poor, where art struggles to outshine ten million stars continuously pulsing with extreme-angle high-contrast mirror-shots with lens flare for good measure.
Dancing to unknown tunes is harder than it looks, realising that I know nothing about this country while dancing to its music is even harder, and the three vodka lemonades aren't doing the job, the one in my hand now is only making the floor slick, already slick from years of drunk students wasting their precious beverages to decreased motor function.
2. I'm glad I didnt forget your name
There were eight of us, in one big circle, shaking and jerking to drumbeats and synth riffs, pulsing like an uncoordinated volvox coenibum in the canal of a high-mount slide. Maybe I was actually drunk, but my psychological tolerance has gotten so high from a week of 200 proof alcohol diet, but I felt like we should've been in Chris Brown's Forever video.
This could be an entry to fmylife. Today, I had my first kiss in an indie club, with a guy I met that same night. I just lost my virginity to him. FML
I hope they wiped the kitchen table before eating that pizza.
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FICTION ALERT
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