Her birthday party is where?
Fuck no, not doing that.
No, even if I have to gorge on Arby’s to summon an inner, incapacitating diarrhea demon, I’ll endure the butthole punishment and marathon dumping to get out of attending tonight. Doubt my conviction and this apartment will be in the market for a new toilet by this time tomorrow.
I’ve told you, much like registering to vote, going to a club or crowded bar is a tedious process I have no interest in. Firstly, such awfulness always entails some dress codes (1). Sure, some fancy boys might enjoy taking time out of their early evenings to meticulously amass a coordinated outfit but, personally, that’s time I’d rather spend napping, Burger King-ing, or continuing an afternoon Funyun bender. My money’s still green, nightclubs, why should it matter if I show up wearing food-stained sweatpants and dad sandals?
Expensive clothes only lead to hygiene expectations (2) and that’ll just mean more energy expended in brushing teeth, flossing, and showering. No one ever appreciates the signature musk I’ve cultivated, a genuine blend of apathy and damp couch. There’s no point grooming; we’re all just going to be engulfed in the cloud of body spray and desperation once we step inside.
Now, the best-case scenario at this juncture is that we’ll have only wasted an hour or so that could’ve been spent sleeping or more aggressively pregaming. Priorities will be completely mismanaged and the hurried, half-assed abridged pre-drinking session we’ll rush through on our way out the door will be testament.
Fucking wonderful, we’ll dash out, uncomfortably near-sober, just to be able to go stand in a line (3). We’ll shuffle through said gossip-riddled mob, painfully aware there’s not something awesome at the other end, like a rollercoaster or freak show. Even upon reaching the front, I’ll just have to fork over cash for cover (4) and effectively inhibit the number of future beers and Funyuns I’ll be able to afford.
Inside it’ll be nothing more than navigating a fleshy designer-clad maze for several hours (5). No one will look comfortable, but everyone will be doing their best to appear as if they’re having the time of their life. The wait staff and bartenders will be overburdened, performing well below any Jon Taffer-set standard. Booze will be difficult to obtain (6) and I’ll be left to wallow, annoyed, in an increasingly lucid mindset.
Noise will consume everything. Screaming in close proximities will become my only method of communication (7). Drink orders, finding people, discretely bolting to the bathroom to vomit, nothing will be easy in the crowd. It’s a young man’s game; I don’t have the energy or desire to ever again have to maneuver through a mass of grinding, sweat, and denim-sheathed erections (8).
Yeah, so, in a nutshell, that’s why I don’t want to go to her birthday tonight. Please don’t coerce me into pulling the trigger on Plan Arby’s. Hit me up later, though, maybe? Like if you guys get tired of the nightclub and date-rapey looking man-children with gelled hair and Affliction t-shirts, you can find me at the filthy dive down the block. I’ll be one there with low standards and chicken wing shrapnel all over my face.
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