I Prefer Clubbing Small Animals; At Least Then I Can Wear What I Want.

I hate clubbing. I admit it.

While most of my generation, including a fair majority of my friends would argue with me to the death on this point, I just don’t see the enjoyment in it. I spent my under-age life going to punk and metal gigs and could not imagine myself enjoying this “clubbing” I was hearing my older sisters talking about. Therefore, after turning 18, I avoided it like the plague. That was until one day when I was convinced by my friends to come along and at least “give it a shot”.

Firstly, let me just say I don’t like to be told what to wear. This isn’t Nazi Germany and I should be able to wear whatever the fuck I want. Upon arriving at my friend’s house I am told “You won’t get into a club wearing that”. I look down at myself, noticing the usual T shirt and jeans, something that isn’t usually an issue. On any other day, I would give up at this point, but I am determined to at least give clubbing a shot so that when I rant about it in the future, I can’t be rebutted with, “You’ve never even been clubbing!”. I borrow my friends ‘pimping’ clothes, and we leave. Destination: the valley.

We arrive, and I enter the club only to see all my nightmares realised. Horrible music is played at a volume much louder than necessary. Creepy guys and drunken girls fondle each other on the middle of the dance floor. I see the kind of people I’ve always avoided contact with, all in one hideous venue.

I attempt to get drunk to ease my pain only to realise that only a multi-millionaire could get drunk off the ridiculously overpriced beverages they’re pushing at the bar. My friends are now ‘ecstatic’ and join in on the pulsating, alive dance floor. Desperate and alone I find a dark corner and huddle up in the foetal position.

I go home, and I kill myself.