Clubbing while sober is also extremely boring. In the first place, I'm not a fan of clubbing - to put it mildly. I honestly don't see the attraction in packing yourself into a thick, viscose sea of people and smelly and sweaty bodies, having smelly and sweaty body parts (meaning arms, of course) rub against you, and feeling like you can't breathe, like you're about to drown in the Sea of Yuck because, oh my god, who knows where these people have been, what disease they carry, the amount of germs they have on them. YUCK. I hate being touched by people I'm not closed to, including an inevitable brush of the shoulders with a random stranger on the streets. I hate being touched, too, by an acquaintance with whom I'm on good terms, even if it's a light tap on the shoulder when he's leaning in to talk to me.
Needless to say, by virtue of the above, a club is a place I least want to be in on any given day. This is even more so now that I'm seeing someone. The fact that he wasn't there last night isn't the point (I can't conceive of a sensible reason to go clubbing with my boyfriend when neither of us is a fan). The point is that clubbing is inherently pointless and not-fun in my book, and the only slight attraction it had in the past was the ludicrous cheap thrill of spotting a hot guy - which, by the way, never once happened to me in the previous five times I clubbed. It's quite illogical if you think about it: it's so dark in a club that you can't be sure if he's hot anyway, and I bet people usually look worse under normal lighting.
But if you're happily seeing someone and intend to keep on happily seeing that person, the only reason you'd go clubbing is for your friend. Period. Thus the t-shirt and jeans garb, because the only reason I went was because of Pearlyn. We'd been talking about going to Butter Factory for the longest time, like maybe a couple of years, and it never happened because I kept backing out. So I thought it was time the agreement was executed, and since Pearlyn is going back to Australia next week, and since Tong isn't around this week to go out with me, I decided, for her sake, to go.
We went to this new club (at least, it was new to me; I'd never heard of it before) at Clarke Quay called Rebel, which is apparently under the same management or whatever that runs Zirca (which sucks) and Lunar (which is amusing because it's so cheena piang). It was okay. Music was predictable, similar to the stuff that was played at St James when Mel and I went in December of 2007 if I remember correctly. Justin Timberlake's Sexyback is the best thing to have ever happened to clubs, in my humble opinion. But then, my opinion is under-researched and disinterested, so make of it what you will.
My left ear started to hurt a little bit after about half an hour though. It got so bad that I had to get out just to get away from the excessively loud thumping music, just in case I went deaf in one ear. It calmed down after a while though and Pearlyn, Mag and I were separated from Dion and Michelle and Michelle's Friends, so we went to Lunar to use the toilet (the one outside was fucking smelly. No way was I peeing in a dirty toilet, not in my own country), after which we hung around the second floor and amused ourselves watching some ugly ah pek dance like an idiot in front of a few scantily-clad Chinese girls. That was weird. And gross.
We went downstairs after a while, meaning to get on the dance floor, but by the time we got there they switched the music to some seriously cannot-make-it techno crap. If I was high on alcohol, maybe it still could've made it, albeit barely; but I was so fucking sober that my good sense could not take that sheer abomination on my ears and good taste in music. It was so bad that I couldn't take it and I demanded that we left - especially when they started playing that stupid Blue da bah dee or whatever nonsense song (which, omg, Mag actually likes. OMG).
We got out of there and went back into Rebel for the hell of it. That was when the stupid pushing and squeezing and contamination of my clean self by the dirty people of the world started. It got worse when we squeezed through the intoxicated, senseless crowd, towards some podium WAY at the back, where Dion, Michelle and Michelle's Friends were. That foray into the heart of the beast fucking pissed me off so much, it was all I could do to restrain myself and stop myself from yelling at retarded people.
Then again, it would've been utterly pointless anyway; it wasn't like they would've been able to hear me. I just cannot take to an environment in which my natural anger and bitchiness cease to be a weapon on which I can rely, every single time.
So we finally got there after what felt like a painful, smelly eternity, and thankfully there was enough space for the three of us to avoid bodily contact with random strangers. The thing about clubbing is that there's really nothing to do when you're standing on the dance floor, surrounded by people all moving, competently or otherwise, to the loud, thumping music that reverberates in your muscles that you start to go with the flow after a while. Not because you like dancing; in fact, you don't particularly care for it. But because there's nothing else to do.
I got quite bored after a while. The whole night though I was texting Tong - had both phones in my jeans pocket, and when he told me that he was back in his hotel room, I texted back which took a while because it was damn hard to see the words clearly when the contrast between the brightness of the phone's LCD and the darkness of the club was so stark. After I sent my message I looked up to see what was going on with my friends, and saw that they'd formed a spontaneous circle around a dubious-looking patch of something I couldn't see clearly in the dark on the floor.
I later found out that some guy sitting on a table by himself next to the dance floor, which was separated by some stupid fake prison cell bar thing, threw up all over himself and onto the floor. In the process he dropped all his stuff, including his wallet. The guy sat there with his head on his folded arms over the table, not moving, and totally concussed as Mag put it.
I am quite mean, but shit, I really felt zero sympathy for him. I feel zero sympathy for fucking retarded idiots who cannot hold their liquor and still insist on going out, spending a bomb on stupid alcohol, and getting so drunk that they pass out on the floor, or in the guy's case, on a table. Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Sorry, but: volenti non fit injuria. If you're old enough to drink, you're old enough to take responsibility for your own action, and so no one's gonna give a shit about you and your junk if you get so pissed drunk that you get yourself raped or your money stolen or whatever. In fact, I'd say you had it coming. I'd say, too: SERVES YOU RIGHT.
Along a similar vein, I'd like to give my heartiest, most sincere FUCK YOU to retarded, self-loathing females who cannot drink and still insist on going out drinking their faces off and getting so pissed drunk that they start pawing other girls' boyfriends. And of course, getting rejected. How fucking embarrassing. Can you please have more self-respect than that? You are an embarrassment to the female population, a sheer abomination, and if you remain single forever, it fucking serves you right.
I shall not go on about this; it's a waste of my time. Suffice it to say that I get really pissed off when someone touches my property. To begin with I already have a very bad temper, so if I could, IF I COULD, someone would be getting sued for conversion.
Okay, it's not technically conversion because nothing was stolen, but...shit, I cannot remember if there's a cause of action if someone tampers with your personal property without stealing it. I mean seriously. Is there? Did I really take Personal Property Law? I guess now I can totally understand why I got a C+ for that.
Attempted conversion? But there's no damage. Does damage to my mental health count?
Shit, who cares. Stupid legal crap.
Anyway, so the guy was all drunk and shit and some of Michelle's Friends were trying to return his wallet and other belongings to him, but he was totally out of it. It would've been funny if it wasn't so damn pathetic.
Clearly I have zero respect for people who don't respect themselves enough to control themselves in public. Serves them right. All of them. And I think I have every right to say this because I got drunk once and it was so horrific that I never got drunk ever again. And I always hold others to the same standard to which I hold myself, so if I can do it, I don't see why you can't. And if you can't do it, then there's no reason for me to respect you.
Drinking is so stupid and pointless, such that it makes no sense to me why lawyers drink so much. And I hate drinking mocktails because they're gross, expensive sugary crap, and for some reason bars don't serve coffee. Seriously, the only thing I drink outside is coffee, and sometimes tea, and very rarely juice (real juice squeezed from a real fruit. And I only take watermelon). I hate sugared drinks which is kinda ironic since I love desserts, but well, I'm strange.
Anyway, I can't remember if I mentioned this and I'm too lazy to check, but I think I might be mildly allergic to alcohol without knowing it. I had a beer last Saturday night with Tong, and after the alcohol took effect, i.e. when I started to have mild breathing problems, when my face was all red and disgusting, Tong said my face was a bit swollen.
Oh my god. And you know, I didn't even finish the beer. And it was even one that I vaguely liked if it's conceivable for me to like beer at all. Okay I'm not sure what the relevance of that piece of info is, but my point is that I might have a legitimate reason not to drink.
Not that a person needs a reason not to drink apart from "I simply don't like it". But to be fair, I have nothing against it per se; I just don't like it because of the effect it has on me. I mean, come on, it's really not fun to feel like I can't breathe after less than one can of Kilkenny, so forgive me if I'm not arsed to join in the "fun".
Anyway, back to my story. At around 2 I decided I had enough of the non-fun which was only fun because of Pearlyn and Mag, and even then I would rather be outside somewhere quieter just talking to them, so we once again made the arduous journey past the diseased crowd and out into open air again. Finally.
While driving myself back I was so tired that I honestly did not notice the first red light I came across. I saw it for sure, but it didn't register in my head. Thankfully the road was deserted and I noticed and stopped in time. I also totally forgot how I even turned into Liang Court, so I found myself at the crossroad between Alexandra and Lower Delta or whatever which told me, once and for all, that I Was Kind Of Lost. So I took the first right turn, intending to go back to where I came from to find my bearings, but of course, I couldn't remember how the fuck I got there in the first place.
In the end I just drove straight, straight, straight, looking out for road signs, and when I saw "Killiney/Somerset", I was so relieved I almost burst into tears of relief. I knew that I had to find Orchard to find my way home because that's the route with which I'm most familiar; all the other routes home meld into one blur for me.
I have zero sense of direction. Sad, isn't it?
Anyway, I swear I was falling asleep driving home along Bukit Timah. And I was still going at 100 km/h. Ha ha ha. I was falling sleep showering, and when I was doing my face I looked at myself in the mirror, and I'm not kidding when I say my eyes were half-closed. I was SO tired, I abandoned the thought I had of calling Tong to say good night (he has some toll free thing so it's free to talk on the phone yay) and settled for texting instead. And after I texted good night to him and Mag, I went to bed and fell asleep IMMEDIATELY.
I woke up today at 11.30 for some fuck-knows-what reason and promptly proceeded to drifting in and out of sleep for the next two hours. I woke up sleepy and tired with my entire body aching from yesterday's dual tennis session. But I always feel a sick sense of achievement when I wake up with muscle aches because I'm weird, so there you go.
In conclusion, I really don't like clubbing. I think it's boring and pointless, and even more so when you have zero intention of pissing your boyfriend off.
Good for me, then, that I'd never really been much of a fan after the initial novelty wore off. I'm glad I got drunk when I did - got the nonsense out of my system, and with that silly experience under my belt, my assessment of this whole drinking/clubbing thing is at least not unjustified.
Moving on to talk about healthier things now - tennis.
OMG I LOVE TENNIS. And - OMG I LOVE MY BACKHAND. If I knew how to aim for a certain spot on the court, I swear my backhand would be perfect. Yesterday I unleashed this amazing baseline to baseline crosscourt backhand that surprised even myself. The sad thing is that I can't remember if I aimed at that spot or if it was another one of my "randomly hit and see where it goes" shots, but regardless, it was really awesome.
My everything else sucks though. And I still have no footwork to speak of.
Nevertheless, it was really fun playing with Baoyue, Justin and Ben! We should do it more often I think.
I feel sick and my voice is all scratchy and weird. Fuck, I hate clubbing.