The music is beating, like a heart testing it’s mortality against a can of Wayyy Tooo Much Shit Fo Dat Vein Energy Drink. The drinks are overpriced. I hate everything! Why the hell did I come?! Everyone is dancing bad. One guy is ambling along, droning around with high sleeves, showing off his new whatever tat, looking tough. I love how people bitch about high shorts on young women but never peep a word about the man-sluts with bare Planet-Fitness-level bicep syndrome. And on that note, the world is getting hot, so skimpy clothes makes sense now. I suddenly realize—naw, I’ve always known it—that I’m no better. I’m that fucking guy who thinks he is so cool that he has some over-all-this-shit attitude, sitting there judging everyone doing what adulthood and what little rope society will allow them to have on this thing that we try to call fun bull shit! All the while I’m wishing I had the guts to be so untethered. I’ve been derided for being a man, for being ugly, short, balding, for having bad teeth, having a quick temper, for being weird, liking stupid bands, wearing lazy clothes, I’ve been ripped apart so much that I am literally afraid of being caught enjoying myself. But I’m thinking shit about these goddamn people, placing everyone in categories, judging, when I’m the one that is damaged. I want to dance—damn it—fuck off, if you hate on it! But instead I drink, and I hate before they can have the chance to hate me. I’m at the club, making stink-face, talking shit, praying I live in a world where the hot girl, with the midriff and raccoon tail—don’t ask—dancing to anyone who she might get a free drink from, will see how cool I am. But no. I suck, and in the worst kind of way. And she gonna get her drink, and I’m gonna keep sitting here writing this story like a miserable fuck who don’t know how to enjoy life anymore. And I deserve it. I’m no better than this guy, or that one. All of us are trying in our own fucked up, damaged-by-the-cards-this-world-has-dealt-us way to stand out and maybe get the girl that does not know we exist. The twist in this story is that sometimes that girl is trying to do the same thing. Most of the time, not so much. Most of the time people just want to have fun. Men have forgotten how to do that as they have left their young-self lost in oblivion. The club is a place for old people to try and remember to let go. Have fun. But things said, things experienced, the disparagement, the jokes, the lies, the peers who have even bigger scars, they make us forget that, and instead we remember all of that which we wish we would forget. So the base thrums, the beat kicks, and we scowl, we float around looking angry or creepy, we sit and brood hoping it somehow looks captivating, we want attention, we want the fun ones to notice, but we only make ourselves look worse than who we really are. Misperceptions sometimes even make us worse than who we are. Being a man should not be so ugly. It should be embraced. We should be proud. And free. We should be like, “fuck you! that’s my song, get the hell out my way!” But who wants to be laughed at? I think that even as I watch these ladies dance with no damn clue what the hell they are doing. They figured it out, but I can’t. Even though I know. I know that I need to just let go. But I’m afraid. I’m damaged... and I’m drinking an over priced light beer. $5 for this shit! Fuck this song, fuck this club, where the cold pizza at?!
(Sigh) whatever, watching Lost in Space on Netflix
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