These are my confessions...

>> Friday, November 14, 2008

Confession: I would rather stay in with a good book than go and drink myself into an early death on a saturday night.

I realise that in the Under-80's, i'm a minority. And you know what? I'm ok with that. Now I don't mind a gathering, a drink or two maybe (but what's the point? two drinks, I may as well drink something that doesn't taste like gasoline)and no taxi waits. This is something that I would consider "acceptable".

What's not acceptable is:

Someone looking violently close to throwing up on your shoes that are hurting your feet anyway.

Someone looking violently close to punching someone else in the face/stabbing someone else in the throat for daring to glance in the 360-degree view that contains said psychopath.

Chemically 'enhanced' sweaty goggle eyed dancers with glowsticks that look violently close to actually wanting me to join them even though I have no idea who they are.

Bouncers that will kill you. I not lie.

Girls that wear a hanky held together with a paperclip in the middle of winter that push in the nine-mile taxi line shouting 'i'm freezing' and then huddling and whingeing constantly that their feet hurt, they're cold, too many guys were being sleazy jerks.... My brain breaks at this point.

Drinks that taste like they scraped them up off the floor and charged you a week's wages for.

Chicks that glare at you in the toilet line and then in the toilets and make you feel like you'll be glassed at any second, and then schizophrenically squeal about how much they love your bag and can they borrow your lip gloss? You're too relieved at narrowly missing having an eye out and you give it to them.

No vegetarian pizza.

Hangovers that are akin to nuclear fallout. At my age, its inevitable.

I am trying very hard to think of a positive here to counteract all my negative nancy-isms..... Oh! watching plain old drunken people dance and try to get up on stage with the Copperhead Road-playing cover band is usually pretty amusing...

So i'll stick with Proust on the weekend and you can have your goggle eyed sweaty underdressed psychopaths.


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