My room is my scene. It’s my scene, okay? I’m hanging out with my people here. It’s me and my people. So if you’re one of my people, I will share my scene with you. We’re in this together. We’re a family. This is our space. We can be ourselves here, in our scene. I can be myself. This is my scene.
On my scene, we have music. I’ve got 6.2 days of music on my iTunes, so when we start dancing, we don’t have to stop until we damn well get enough. If you have music on your phone or something, we can plug it into the stereo, but I’ll have to see if I have the cords for that. I keep it freaky here, in part so people who aren’t down with freaky music don’t crash my scene, but mostly just because I like it freaky. We’re the freaks. This is our time. This is our place. This is my scene.
On my scene, we drink, drank, drunk. In the fridge I’ve got a Four Loko, a bottle of Barefoot chardonnay, and a six-pack of pear cider, and if that’s not enough to make you blotto, then come here baby, and we’ll play lotto. This is my scene.
They don’t know about my scene. If they did, it would be their scene, and FUCK THAT SHIT. I keep this business on the DL by staying at home with the front door and also the door to my room closed and locked, and since there are no outward signs that there is a scene going on here, we’re safe. When I open the scanner lid and use it as disco lighting, that might attract some attention, but other than that, we should be cool. This is my scene.
Okay, it’s 5:30 somewhere—and by somewhere, I mean here! Where my bitches at?