Portrait

last night was one in many of the same kind. we go out, we get drunk, we dance a lot and head back home. i have the most fun friends, and the kind of fun i have with them is something i will never have with any other people. we don’t go places to be seen, we don’t go places to make a statement, and we sure as hell don’t go places expecting to eventually get some before the night is over. clearly, a lot of other people do, though.

people are fascinating. last night i sat there, watching girls throwing themselves at guys they wouldn’t even notice were they sober, guys falling all over the dance floor with girls they would be otherwise trying really hard to impress, people sultrily making eye contact across the bar and generally making huge asses of their generally respectable selves under the influence of alcohol and lord knows what else. i’m not saying i’m a saint. i’ve been there, done that, woken up the next morning to literally kick myself sore. ‘why the fuck did i do that last night?’ its a funny pattern. is this one of those exceptions to the ‘learn from your mistakes and refrain from making them again’ rule? it truly seems that way. no matter what, the release that behaving like an idiot brings is too divine to stop indulging in it, nevermind the consequences.

i noticed a great deal of things in my sobriety last night that i may not have otherwise noticed or cared about. men in clubs here are, for a fact, for damn sure, out to get some. they’re cruising. watching. making themselves seen and looking out for the most vulnerable of all the piss-drunk girls. i’m not saying all men are perverse assholes. i’m saying that’s the kind of atmosphere one steps into when you step into a club on a saturday night at midnight. everyone’s high, if not on anything substantial, then on the music, the smoke, the frustration. absorbing the general mood of reckless abandon that surrounds them, even the most sensible give into to whims and fancies they will remember/regret for some time to come. you lose control to the pulsating hip hop that’s shouting in your ears, you lose control to the guy who’s been watching you for the last half hour, you lose control to that last malibu and coke. it’s all about letting go. everyone wants to kiss, everyone wants to dance, some even want to, pardon my french, fuck.

it makes one think. why? why do we think its fun? to be uninhibited? is it because we spend most of our life being restricted by boundaries and ethics, that once in awhile, its too good to be true to be able to do what you want and not care two hoots that we get carried away? on top of all of that, you even have a good excuse for your messy behaviour. ‘yeah men, i was SO drunk.’ is it because we care so much what other people think that its nice to relax the guard once in a while and believe that no one is watching? or that even if they are, you don’t care because they’re behaving as atrociously?

men trying to hit on me is a constant source of entertainment. i’m not being bitchy, but that’s just me. i think its funny. being a girl that often gets hit on is overrated. my friends think i’m a star for it. ‘yeah right chick, you’re the girl that everyone wants. what are you complaining about?’ little do they know that it can turn out to be irritating and leave you with little faith in men and also questioning your own worth. ‘do i give out some slutty come-get-me vibes? is that why i get hit on?’. last night was hit-on-me-fest. (pardon the seeming ego, its not intended) at one point i had to observe that men find it impossible to walk by you without touching you. sure, its a squeeze and the club is a little full, but if there’s room for you to get your arms around me or your hands on my waist, then there’s sure as hell enough room for you to walk by me without touching me. i’m used to getting hit on on the dance floor. it happens. i’m used to getting hit on. but sometimes its so lame i just want to laugh. just as some men seem like they shouldn’t ever try to hit on a woman, ever, they’re so rotten at it, some men have done it attractively well. as i see it, there are three kinds of men, and i’m saying this in the most superficial way possible. there’s the kind that makes you wanna throw up, there’s the kind that makes you smile and feel good about yourself, and there’s the kind that makes you want to get naked. i’ve been hit on by men in all three groups. needless to say, the 1st kind, well, makes me want to hurl, the 2nd kind is comforting and ego-boosting while the 3rd kind is just pure dangerous to be around if one is not in one’s senses.

i’m not into false flattery and i don’t understand how men can seriously think that it works. i dunno, does it? for instance, telling me i’m beautiful doesn’t work as half as well as telling me i’m intelligent. i have an ego the size of planet earth, but i know i’m not beautiful. the moment its clear that they’re doing whatever they can to have you put out and really aren’t paying enough attention to the finer details, it stops being nice and starts to get nauseating.

last night, the best hit on was, unsurprisingly, by this girl called lisa. she’s gorgeous, british and nikki’s friend, and told me she wants to take me home because i can dance and i have beautiful hands.

anyway, this is a random post but there was a lot of stuff in my head last night. i didnt go home with lisa.