Let’s get this metaphorical ball rolling with another rant, shall we? So, my topic this time is going out; but more specifically, going out to clubs.
So, like many of the (but not restricted to) youth out there, I enjoy going out with friends. But look, there are some problems with this. “Unfortunately” for me and the minority of you out there, I cannot tolerate the devil’s nectar, alcohol, very well. As far as I’m concerned (and I suppose this is my blog, after all…), I don’t get tipsy or become overly enthusiastic with a sip or two, then blank out the rest of the evening like some traumatic event, with only a raging headache and several questionable cuts and bruises as I wake up on my windowsill, apparently having tried to sneak in (I assure you this has not happened; I mean, I live on the 2nd storey, so as fun a story as this would be to tell, I can’t happen… Or can it?).
No. This is not my case. What happens is after a mere two, or even one drink, I start to feel queasy. Not cool, guys. Not cool. So, essentially, this means that I can’t fully enjoy being inebriated as much as my friends can. Don’t take me for a fool, though, guys. By no means am I the type of person that would go out every night to wake up hung-over every morning even if I could; I just wish that I could join in on the fun at times, you know? Basically, I get to experience the first drink as the same as everyone else, then on the infinitesimally rare occasion, I’m “privileged” enough to skip the fun, careless few hours to immerse myself in the guy-I-don’t-feel-so-good minutes of the evening. I also sheepishly admit that I want to at least experience a hangover at least once, which, I regretfully add that in this world of ours, has in a sense become a coming-of-age ritual.
Anyhow, there’s more. This section, I don’t think would be overly affected whether or not I was able to drink: the club scene. Despite my “condition”, I have been clubbing. I enjoy it to a certain extent – but I feel like that’s not saying much, right? I mean, as long as I have a few of my closer friends with me, I’m happy to go wherever (within reason, of course!). I like the feeling of the bass thundering in my rib cage, the way fireworks do, and just immersing myself in the situation. However, there are a few things. Like the ratio of drinks actually drunk, to the amount of drinks that’s actually spilled. And knowing my luck, on me. People, I understand that you want to dance. I understand that you want to drink. But don’t dance while your drunk and drinking, because something is going to go down if you do. Which leads me to my next point.
Sticky floors. I might as well be walking through tar, just saying. I can almost hear the sickly peeling of the soles of shoes from the once-dry floor, as the half-dried drinks cling onto my feet. Just a small thing that gets to me. Will this ever be fixed. Probably not. Damn.
Then there’s the sweat. It’s natural, I get it. People are drinking and dancing. I get it. But I don’t know, I think the only place that I’d ever imagined that I’d accept 12 other people’s sweat to slobber over me simultaneously would have been at a music concert of some sort, in the sun and all of us singing along, you know? Not from that dirty-looking 20-year-old-wannabe who had been grinding up some poor girl who wore a highly minimalistic outfit for the past half-hour, smelling of vodka and something else suspicious.
Now, it’s a little bit of a double standard (but you know what, we all do it, so why stop with me?), but as much as I enjoy the music pumping and pounding, at the same time, when I go out with friends… I don’t know, I guess I enjoy talking to them? I mean, you don’t make plans for the weekend to ‘see’ each other, only to literally, see each other, then talk to them again next week to plan the same thing, right? Or is that just my friends and I? Then as the night goes on, feeling your voice slowly die away; you can feel that roughness in your throat, throttling. But despite that, you fight on. And it doesn’t stop when you leave the club either; your club-induced deafness also makes you continuously speak as loud as you can to your friends for the rest of the evening, even in the cab ride home, when they’re literally 20cm away from you.
Then there’s the overly-drunk people, which you can only enjoy if you’re almost, if not equally, drunk as them. For a while, it’s entertaining with a hint of sympathy. But then they see you. But you’re paralysed. And before you know it, you’re surrounded. And from personally experience, drunk people do not have a sense of personal space (as illustrated by that dodgy, Mr. Grind from before). Thank you stranger, I appreciate having you face so close to mine, that your tongue could probably reach my face from where you are. Just please don’t choose now of all times to up-chuck your night over onto my shoes. Thanks.
As the night ends, there’s the inevitable travel back home, more often than not in a cab. But before you can go, you need to see who’s actually coming with you, and who’s staying to slay the dance floor some more. After, you say your goodbyes; some awkward, some pointless as some won’t even remember this exchange, and a few sincere. Trudge along the main road for a few minutes, seeing your competition, all seeking that one cab at the end of the road. But somehow, you and your friends manage to hail it down; winning. As claustrophobic as it can get, you’d prefer to sit in the back with your friends, to spend the few remaining moments of their alertness before getting drowsy to engage in a few conversation topics. But no, you somehow get pushed to the front seat, sitting next to what happens to be a non-native-English-speaking chap who is blasting something immensely foreign to you in attempt to drown the awkwardness that’s clearly draped between you two.
The last few moments of the evening is made up of the fumbling of payment for the cab; one or two people always pay for it, then we always split it to pay back later, which never comes; the walking home of the still tipsy ones home, who are adamant that they’re ‘fine’ despite their ability walk in a steady, straight line. Then, the aftermath. Where all that comes up in conversation and Facebook are incriminating photographs, silly little in-jokes, and the guilt of who did the most stupid act of the night.
I’m sure if I were able to drink and participate, my point of view would be different, but I can’t, therefore it’s not, and hence, I am here. Complaining. Again.
Talk to you guys soon, I’m sure.