I spent many years pretending to be normal, morphing names, costumes, masks as the situation required.

From lesbian punk to corporate geisha girl, from cyberslut to cybaroque CEO, my scripting was impeccable.

The looped masquerades worked; everybody wanted me for my flawless lingo. I was invited to dinners and power breakfasts and cocktails and film launches and art openings and raves and online parties. Headhunted by the best corporate cannibals. An executive apartment, a pornographically-priced Italian car with customised malachite dashboard, platinum e-credit lines, the latest computers shitted from my ass with enviable regularity. So many frequent flyer points when I was finally uploaded into the higher realm I still wouldn’t have used half of them.

And lovers. Male, female, hermaphrodite, transsexual, transgendered, undecided, ambiguous, ambivalent. Always young. Always drop dead beautiful. Always brilliantly, devastatingly, relentlessly banal. I made it a policy never to sleep alone.

I was a cunt to be envied.

And maybe I was even happy. Or that's how the script read.