Surrounded by hipsters and scared to be caught in a scene, self-consciousness takes over. A girl in orgasmic tights thrashes on stage. The crowd competes while her screams create a mini-riot.

Masks dot the faces of the people below. Tarts in hooker heels tower overhead. And I am nonexistent.

When the band stops, anxiety kicks in. The DJ muffles lubricated conversations with an eclectic mix of mediocrity. People bounce because of Ecstasy. A drunkard zigzags toward me as a busty blonde barges my shoulder.

Youngsters spew out onto suburban streets. Winter lingers and is ready to attack uncovered skin.

My bedtime has passed. My outfit is no longer fashionable. It is pointless to explain that I have owned my Doc Martens for 13 years — now is the time for self-righteousness.

Everything has become passé.