Hi! Do you remember blogs? Well, this used to be one. Now it just serves as an archive for my multiple Twitter accounts.
Nothing like a TV news piece about police violence in the morning to destroy your good mood and your motivation to write about the past night. But I’ve got a blog to blog, so I’ll get to it. And this thing is long, and I’m not that motivated to translate it, but I will, unless I give up before the end, which I’ll try not to.
So last night I found out I could go out clubbing without necessarily feeling like a loser. Really. Yeah, I know, I’m a bit slow, it took me half a dozen years to find out how clubbing works. Better late than never, they say—and the good thing about my legendary avoidance of any kind of professional responsibility results in me looking way younger than I am. So it’s okay, I can still make up for a bit of the time I lost.
I’ll start with thanking Paumé for offering me to go out, and insisting, and begging me on his knees, and I may be exaggerating just a little bit, because it’s my blog and dramatization means you have to make some adjustments so it comes out more interesting, and you didn’t think I really like TV series, did you? So, I said, thanks to him for allowing me to have a good night (even though I left alone, but, well, it’s still new for me, it wasn’t gonna work the very first time, was it?) for exactly zero euro and zero cent.
I always went clubbing as a spectator (even though that may change in a near future, but more about that when it does happen) but, of course, as I stood up against a wall in a corner, I always grew bored pretty quickly—I didn’t know there was such a thing as organized spectatorship, with tables and seats, and that all you have to do is find someone who’ll pay for a bottle of alcohol, and have a couple of friends to share the experience with. It’s all so simple. Let me clarify: I don’t drink (I only tested half a glass of whisky+orange, to see how it was, and it actually wasn’t bad, even though I hate the taste of whisky, even with Coke). But who says bottle (paid by someone else, since I don’t drink, so the trick here is that it doesn’t cost me anything, now I’ll only go clubbing with someone who buys a bottle) also says free, unlimited jugs of Coke or orange juice (well, free to me at least). And the point is, it’s far less boring when you’re sitting with people and you have drinks (and ice cubes, they’re important too) at will. It’s also far less boring when you’re dancing after you’ve drunk a liter of orange juice over the night: I’ll have to try that again as well.
As a result, this is the first time I get out of the club in broad daylight. Not mild sunrise like when I’ve been waiting hours in a dark corner for the time there would be the first subway, but real daylight of six and a half in the morning in late may (damn, it’s aleady late may). Now, my clothes are in the washing machine, and even my bag stinks of smoke, but it’ll grow out of it eventually. As far as I’m concerned, I’m now thinking of conceptualizing the possibility of regularly going out. Thing is, I’m not going to get a job just in order to pay for a weekly clubbing night. No chance of that. If, at least, I was telling my sex life on my blog (for starters, I don’t have a sex life, but even if I did, I wouldn’t give out details), I could become a ghetto VIP and have free entrance. Instead, I’ll have to wait until I’m a famous gay director, and it might take a little bit more time. And then, once I’m there, I’ll be worn out and disillusioned and I’ll just look like the old pervert who comes and fantasizes on the flesh displayed there.
But, come to think of it, and considering I noticed 50% of faces I had already seen in chatrooms, what’s the point of going out if you end up meeting the same people?