“Ummm…is this the line for the coat check?”
“Where’s your coat? Are you leaving already?”
Yes I’m fucking leaving already. I hate this place.
I’m leaving because I hate dancing.
I’m leaving because I hate the shitty rap/hip-hop/remix shit that they play here.
I’m leaving because I hate the overpriced drinks.
I’m leaving because I hate the scrawny, slutted–up women with their makeup-slathered faces.
I’m leaving because I hate the guys with their hair covered in gel and their bodies bathed in cologne.
I’m leaving because I can be an antisocial prick sometimes.
I’m leaving because there’s nowhere to just sit down and talk to somebody.
I’m leaving because no matter how hard I try, I simply can’t enjoy a place like this. Then I start to worry about what’s wrong with me and things just go downhill from there.
I’m leaving because my hatred of this place makes me look like an ass in front of Kristin, who lives to dance. Sweet Kristin, of the wide smile, pixie eyes, and tasty body. Kristin, the star cornerback of our Sunday afternoon football games. Kristin, who kissed me outside the restaurant one night. It would probably be best if I didn’t stand next to her with a scowl on my face all night.
I’m leaving because I knew there would be kissing and breasts and heat and pounding music and I knew that I would hate it, but I still came anyway.
I’m leaving because this motherfucking coat check line is way too long. How long is the whole ticket/coat transaction supposed to take anyway?
I’m leaving because I was in Milwaukee last weekend at a real bar. With real people who sat down and drank and smoked and talked and laughed. They were actual human beings. Maybe you should try it sometime.
I’m leaving because Ted needs a ride home.
“Here’s my ticket.”
“You leaving this early?”
You’re goddamn right wow.