Don't envy me, I'm rap's MVP

First Friday of every month, we get down and dirty.
My night.
My music.
My dancefloor.

I'm indecent, I'm shameless, I'm carefree. I flaunt my individuality as if daring others to rebuke me and strike them down if they do. But no, tonight it's chyll. I mean, how can it not be when the night started out with popperz. We smoke and we drink, we dance the night away - ah, the debauchery of youth. Pooka's there and I jump about excitedly and hug Pooka and dance with Pooka and want to pull on Pooka's cheeks 'cuz Pooka's lookin' adooowable! I grind with the one and he puts his hands on my shoulders and I wonder where this is going but the music takes over and I can think of nothing but the sweet rapture the sound waves send to my brain which succumbs entirely and I'm the only one there; everyone else is inconsequential. As my song plays, I close my eyes and my body moves to it and I look up. There are dozens of faces looking at me and there are sparks coming down my way and I'm singing - I'm singing at the top of my lungs. I feel ecstasy, pure ecstasy!