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Clubbing Actually Sucks, And You Know It

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As 20-somethings who like to pretend that we are functioning adults (but still predominantly rely on our parents to survive) we often exploit our lack of major responsibilities by drinking ourselves into oblivion and doing things our grandmothers would never approve of. No shame there. We’re young, and we should take advantage of that. For instance, my current hobbies include finding new beverages that taste decent when mixed with whiskey and generally being a disappointment to friends and family. YOLO ‘n shit.

However, I believe that there is one mistake that we should all work to avoid: clubbing. That’s right, I said it. Clubbing is a mistake. Bars will always be chill, but it’s time for us to grow a pair and admit to ourselves that clubs are a total nightmare. This is mainly because any and every drunken fault that you commit on a given night can and will happen if you go clubbing. It’s just a weird atmosphere to be in, and it undoubtedly brings out the hoodrat in all of us. I’m always down to chug a drink I can’t pronounce and perform shenanigans with my friends, but I truly believe we should all band together and murder the concept of clubbing. Here’s why.

Clubbing starts off with you and your friends waiting in a line with moronic degenerates and poorly dressed boys with earrings. After paying a $10 cover (which we can all safely assume is not the policy and exists solely to fuel the bouncer’s addiction to hair gel and steroids) you are herded like mindless cattle into a dark, crowded room. The music induces minor seizures, and the drinks are watered down and priced up. There’s always an awkward pause when you first get there, because you have to examine your options and decide which one makes you want to kill yourself the least. Do I want to go up to the bar and order a $14 Long Island? Do I want to dance with my friends and risk being humped by some wildebeest who thinks I’ll be into it? Nah, I’ll just pretend I have to pee. Scratch that, the line is 30 feet long and half the toilets are covered in puke.

You stand around for a bit as you sip on some frilly drink and pretend you’re having a good time. Maybe, if you pregamed hard enough, you actually aren’t having a terrible time. You will be, though, as soon as you realize that the room is so loud that the only way of communicating with your friend is by screaming into her ear drum with the brute force of a thousand suns. She’ll respond with a nod, even if it wasn’t a yes or no question, because she can’t hear you, and she’s given up on the possibility of normal social interactions. From this point on, your night will be a routine of making your way between the bar and the dance floor until you’re drunk enough to do some weird shit. Eventually, you’ll be so hammered that you’ll mount a booth and show everybody your sick dance skills sporadic limb spasms, resulting in a meathead security guard insisting that you “have to go.” You’re finally free to grab some drunk food or text your on-call slam, so the night wasn’t a total loss, right?

Wrong. It was definitely a loss. You’ll realize this when you wake up to find that your bank account has received a hard karate kick to the groin. Your favorite heels are scuffed from sitting on the sidewalk while you waited for the cab that you would eventually leave your purse in. You sent a score of embarrassing texts to every number in your phone, as well as a few new numbers that you failed to assign a name to. You probably spilled a vibrant colored drink on your clothes, and the hazy memory of that kid you made out with will forever haunt your nightmares. All this will happen before you even realize the magnitude of the hangover that’s about to set in.

I don’t know about you guys, but I’m done pretending that clubbing is a viable option. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I enjoy the ability to have legitimate conversations and actually see the person next to me. If I wanted to stand around aimlessly and try to appear cooler than I actually am, I’d head to a bottom-tier sorority house and tell everyone I work for TSM. Until then, I’ll be at my favorite bar drinking a 75 cent whiskey Coke and voluntarily telling people intimate details about my life.

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Lucky Jo

Lucky Jo is a former and current TSM writer who likes her men how she likes her coffee: way too hot and unforgivably bitter. She graduated from the University of Missouri in 2016, proving that C's do in fact get degrees. She now spends her days working for a social media marketing agency, hiking with her dachshund, and trying to bring back the scrunchie. Hate mail and goat memes can be sent to lucyjmulvihill@gmail.com.

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