I suppose if one wanted to, one could set lofty goals for oneself. Like, before going out maybe set hurtles like, “Get some girl's number.” “Hook up with so-and so.”
I was thinking the other day: it really doesn't matter the activity. Everyone likes to succeed. Even if the challenge is an arbitrary one, it still makes us feel good to have achieved what we have set forth to do.
Now, some guys may be up for the challenge of getting digits or preforming a quantitative analysis of lips and ass, but not me. I'm small fry. I need something a little more achievable.
[dramatic reenactment]I'm not sure what “J/k” means, but THANK YOU THAT IS JUST THE KIND OF GOAL I'M LOOKING FOR!
Its not particularly difficult, its practical, and I can do it all by myself. I guess it could be compared quite easily to another popular activity.
Anyhow.. with this goal set firmly in mind, I pre-gamed, and stepped boldly into the club.
Its a typical night. Music. Girls. Blank dance floor. My friend has left me alone here for the time being, so as my eyes are rotating between the standard club artifacts, I wonder if I look self conscious.
I'm not self-conscious, but here I am in the middle of an empty dance floor, just kind of slightly nodding to music, glancing around the room.
I'm not self, conscious, but do I look self-conscious?
Those girls are pretty cute.
I'm not making a good impact here.
Why do girls always come to clubs in mammoth numbers and form circular bandwagon protection formations. Don't they know thats intimidating? Can they smell my fear?
I realize that wondering if you look self-conscious is pretty much the same thing as being self-conscious. But then suddenly, like wisdom from god, it comes back to me: I'm not here to dance, or get girls, or make friends. GET FUCKED UP.
FOCUS seth. All hands towards victory!
Okay, so that was the start of a long night where the only set goal was to get fucked up. Turns out, when you're goal is to get fucked up, you get more reckless, less inhibited, and spend more money. Examples:
1) I don't want to brag, actually wait thats false. I truly desperately want to brag, but I'm not very good at it, so beginning the sentence with “I don't want to brag” and ending it with “danced for a while with a hot asian chick” makes sense in my messed up anti-social mind.
2) Pissing on vending machines is both fun AND a kind of anti-corporate political statement. If you're on spring garden and 2nd, don't purchase soda by the gas station. Some of my self-righteous protest is probably still in the coin return slot.
3) I began the night with 2 twenties and a ten. I paid no covers tonight. No coat check. No cab fare. Just a fistful of quarters for the bus here, and 2 dollars for the bus back. And now, as I sit here, I have spread out in front of me the only cash left over from the night:
11 singles. That was supposed to be my money for the entire week and now its been converted to stripper conversation. I really can't even try to account for that kind of massive loss.
Later in the night I fucked up real big, and the reason I'm writing this is for the same reasons that autopsies are performed. What happened? What went wrong?
Okay, lets get inside: Really amazing looking indian girl, and I'm dancing behind her for like a few tracks, and she keeps looking back at me, and I want to go and dance with her, but she has like 4 other friends, so I'm thinking the logistics are bad. But I'm starting to slide up to her, and WHAT the fuck? Who the? This guy just comes over, grabs her by the waist and whispers in her ear. I'm like, “Noooo!!!” and kind of reach out and grasp at the air helplessly. Whats funny is the guy actually notices this and it kinda fucks up his game a little. He stutters, jerks back for half a second, panics, and then reasserts himself. It actually works. I'm lost in amazement, hurt, and pissed off. They dance for the rest of the night and then afterwards, I'm sure, ride off into the sunrise in a yellow cab and live happily ever after. My imagination is pretty unforgiving.
I suppose if we didn't have brains to imagine what we don't see, we'd live with a lot less pain. But.. there'd be more drooling. So its a losing trade off.
I hang around the club for another half hour just getting more pissed off at myself, and then tell my friend,
“I'm leaving. fuck-the-world-don't-ask-me-for-shit” and toss my half-full beer on the ground, wishing it had shattered into about a thousand pieces. On the way out I express my anger to a harmless trash can by kicking it over. I'm just sulking; I'll forget all about it on the bus ride home. Besides: Success! Clearly I've accomplished my goal!
I decide to send my goal-suggesting friend a text message: “I hope you're happy, I'm so fucked up!” This is witty at 2:30 am.
Okay, so to close up, from what I can tell, I get home at around 3, knock coffee all over my rug, and leave this little nugget of sensitive irrelevant bullcrap as an away message:
“what a pity, drunk and no one to share it with.”
Awww. How touching.
Get a girlfriend you fucking drunk.