I got scammed.

I got scammed.

I have lost all of my saving, my head is melted and I’m fucking angry.

The scam that got pulled on me is called the arts.

The vermin who run this operation are called administrators.

The administrators make various promises, about  the value of arts to shape culture and to help us understand and inspire each other.

This is all unscientifically proven jargon, designed to entrap vulnerable creative types.

I was one of these vulnerable morons, who was dazzled by these wondrous beings.

They dress smart casual, in unoffending muted tones, they present themselves as  polite and pleasing. But do not be fool by their pleasant demeanour its not real, nothing about them is real they are not even human. They are in fact a stalking towers of rats. Two hundred maybe three hundred white rats make up one administrators, the rats will sniff out an arrogant, privileged, latte sipping university graduate type and infest their body.

A king rat lives in the centre of these hideous monsters sending out signals and order to the other rats that are the body and limbs and of these cunning abomination.

I was easily groomed. 

I was first approached by an administrators around my 19th birthday. It was at an adult circus skills class at my local community centre, I love it and the administrators convicted me to singed up for 3 week circus skill camp in Galway.

After my 3 weeks in Galway my initiation into the cult of the arts was complete.

I could have got a degree or maybe even got a job in banking.

I was so brainwashed I was spending every day doing circus arts, juggling, handstands and even fire poi. I bought equipment, took online course, attended workshop, started buying colourful clothing form India and I even got a tattoo.

They told me about the transformation effect of art. They said that “I could change individual and society for the better with my art.”

All I had to do was ’stay focus, belive in your dreams and put together a 7 year business plan’

These administrators with their seductive, talk of postmodernism, are truly evil. They feed on unused creativity and imagination. They eat out the artistry and originality of their host to make a nest for their brood. 

They meet once a year in Venice and over cheese and crackers they decide which easily led creative dope they can exploit for their own ends.

They invited me to their Art Administrational head quater in Belfast for a consultation.

They promised me support, they handed me forms.

They offered guidances, and made helpful suggestion.

The ‘Start Up Art Grant’ was easy just some basic information and I was sure to get it, and I did.

And just like that I was hooked on funding.

I spent hour filling in application for bursary, residences, project and mentoring, I barely had any time left to do circus.

Most of my application failed, I began  doubting myself and question everything I was doing. Each rejection letter was like a stab into my creative soul.

I told them that I was suffering.

But the administrator kept encoring me. 

‘All artist suffer and great artist must suffer more.’ They told me,

‘Suffer more, suffer better.’ They chanted.

Gradually they chip away at me.

They help me remove my blemishes, advised tempering my anger, and slowly they grinded me down until I become a circus version of Coldplay.

I kept filling in forms.    

The stress of the work load was making me ill, parts of my body began to itch.

At first I though it was just a rash, but soon It developed into a fever. The anxious nightmare made my skin crawl and the sleep less nights made me paranoid. I started to hear voices, coming form deep inside me, commanding me.

I started dressing in muted unoffending  clothing, and buying lots of cheese and cracker bread.

My accent changes, I no longer fitted in at my local bar, I began to find most of my friends and family repulsive, their politics and taste to be out of date, and offensive.

The voices inside me became louder and more confusing. When I stood next to an administrators I swear I could hear a hundred hungry hearts beating.

My body was not mine and my ideas felt like they were someone else I was not the person I though I was.

My last application failed, I sweated blood and tears over it, every detail had been researched every references cross references and when i was rejected the tsunami of utter despair that crashed over me, gave me the perspective to see what was actually happening.

When I look at the administrators I could see for the first time the rats, their faces, tail and claws. And when they talked they sounded like the voices that were coming form inside me.

I was infected and need a cure.

I ate rat poison and when i threw up I could see the infant rats scurry from my vomit.

The curtain finial fell and their lies exposed, I had been so deluded.

How could i have let myself be so exploited?

And how can I make it right?

Tonight Im going down to the Artist Administrational head quarters in Belfast, I have 20 litres of petrol and I’m going to start a fire.

In the morning it will all be just ash.

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