They come out at night. They’re ruthless and they’ve seen it all.
Party animals, they’ll take over the DJ gigs till 5am, dancing the night away until you’ve fallen so low that you wonder if the 6 halves of their (local) ecstasy pills might be a better option for you next time, if you haven’t retired yet from the scene, than the pill that your friend brought over from his recent trip to Amsterdam. The undertwenty always beats you.
Carefree groups of GiBs, who flock the street in front of Acid like this is San Francisco. They can claim they’ve owned their Friday and Saturday nights since their teens, making you mess up your math as you try to figure out how many years you’ve missed of raunchy boys-nights-out. No, it’s not that Acid was still a straight club ten years back when you were their age – you had Orange Mécanique. Just admit it, the undertwenty does a better job than you did.
They know what they (don’t) want, they’ve tried this before (a lot), and have nothing to learn (from you). Date one and you’re under the spell, because he gave you some (lots of teasing and maybe a one-time fcuk), and he awoke the big-brother in you. Enjoy the moment, but count to ten. At ten, you’re alone, and you’re down. Don’t expect any hand to pick you up, the undertwenty is gone. Just hope you didn’t fall too deep, that what you heard from him won’t take you straight into therapy, and try not to think of the naïve bliss you felt each time you took out your wallet. The undertwenty outlives you.
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