Diary entry—the night before the De Vere Ball – Phoebe Nir

It’s 3am, the night before the De Vere Ball. I’m tossing and turning in my bed, tormented by a deep philosophical question—who do I have to fuck to get Elon to tweet about Oxfordianism?   I was never a party girl. In college, my social calendar was built around the Gilbert and Sullivan Society, and our performances of 19th century operettas in Rhode Island’s premiere senior centers. So imagine my surprise to find myself throwing a party hotly anticipated by Dimes Square’s crème de la crème, hailed by one twitter commentator as “even more annoying than the trad cath shit.” 
        I’m grateful that my niche interest has generated any attention at all. But navigating the desires of internet micro-celebrities had turned my life into an unending steeplechase. 

Each buzz of my phone sends me hopping with agita. Curtis Yarvin wants a hooker sent to his suite at the Praxis Embassy. Kanye has just requested a plus two. Monica Mommy Milkers is asking to borrow my bra. 

My twitter dms are filled with heart-breaking entreaties for tickets. My rabbi is desperate to meet Dasha. Some Effective Altruists from the Bay Area only secured tickets for half of their polycule. A child from the Make-A-Wish fund wants feet pics from Pariah the Doll. 

I want desperately to include everyone, but the venue is run by an elderly woman with intense agoraphobia, and I’ve told her I’m hosting an academic conference. I have no choice but to turn people away.

Meanwhile, I’ve been struggling to pull the show together. My vision was to revitalize the literary salon tradition by featuring engaging live performances. But to tell the truth, prospects look iffy. I’ve attracted serious interest by advertising cancelled rockstar Ariel Pink as my headlining act, but he’s been less communicative than I would have hoped for. I’ve been starting to question whether I correctly interpreted the meaning of his exclamation point emoji reaction when I texted him an invite to the Ball, which thus far represents the sum total of our communications. James O’Keefe from Project Veritas is highly enthusiastic, but I’m alarmed by his insistence on performing his monologue on a live horse. Thankfully, I can rely on at least one of the performers—my close friend Salomé, an extremely stable transvestite who was recently hospitalized for going off her lithium. 

Groypers are swirling and security has been a concern. I asked Peter Thiel to hire a coterie of Mossad agents as bouncers, but some wires must have gotten crossed. Instead, the venue is being guarded by a blind little person armed with a wrench. Dos Equis had initially offered to be our liquor sponsor, but pulled out after dm’ing with my bartenders, twitter users @JamaicanWignat and @TheRenfaireRapist. 

I check the time. 4am. If I don’t get some sleep, it’s going to be hard for me to be emotionally present for the festivities. I’m allowing the stress to overshadow what I really care about. Shakespeare, and scholarship. Friendship and free speech. 

Showing young women that anything is possible through a combination of sexual espionage, blackmail, and lying to my wealthy parents.

I take a deep breath and visualize the happy faces that will greet me at the Ball. Friends. Frenemies. Grifters. Weird guys I’ve hooked up with. People who are afraid to be photographed, and people who like being photographed just a little too much. Humanity’s glorious rainbow. My body relaxes, and I drift into a peaceful sleep.