In this age of distinction and fine revelry, I tip my hat to the masses.
For they are the ones who make me right. They are the ones who I
need to please in order to rise to the highest heights of status and charm.
By the ice swans and punch bowls, I have found my calling. A calling
of elegance. I care deeply for your admiration, friend - but it is lost in
ill-placed anger and milquetoast speech. I, in my finest suit, outlook you.
I outdress you. I outthink you. You are a child and I am a an adult with
razor sharp senses and wits. I will devour you. I will eat you whole.
With every smile, my hate grows.
But it's all a big facade. I've had too much punch, now, and I fear the
help may have poured moonshine from the still straight into the crystal
chalice and my head is spinning. My suit is unbuttoned. My gut stuck
out and heaving. My brow sweaty.
And all I want is your approval. I'm sorry.
