mychai's Diaryland Diary

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What I really feel about popular nighttime arenas

Not much to say today.

Which usually leads to a rather large diary entry. I should probably quit putting that disqualifier at the beginning of entries. Because nine times out of ten, they don't really mean anything.

Much like this whole diary.

One thing I will mention is that it was confirmed once again last night -- this was probably the 836th time that I was reminded -- that I absolutely hate, hate, hate going to dance clubs.

If this reduces my monstrous sex appeal for you ladies and you wish to quit reading, then so be it. I've tried to enjoy dance clubs. I've done everything imaginable to try and like it. But, as Popeye so wisely said, "I yam what I yam."

One thing I hate about dance clubs is that they are so goshdamned packed. There is way too much unauthorized bodily contact going on. It's kinda hot when a chick wearing not much at all slides around my crotchal area on her way to a bar. Not so hot when her husky, hairy boyfriend does the same.

Plus, I'm one of these people whose mother drilled into their heads that people will snatch the wallet out of your back pocket when in crowded spaces. You must remember, where I grew up, the big crowds included Mardi Gras. The pick-pocketers won't stop at the wallet. If they like your pants, you'll walk around for ten minutes before you realize they the pick-pocketers stole those, too.

So, when there are a lot of people bumping against me all the time, my mind keeps saying, "Check for your pants!" And I am constantly feeling for my pants, and my hand is always going to my butt to see if my wallet is still there.

When people go to dance clubs and see a guy constantly grabbing his butt in the corner, they know it's JP.

Another reason I dislike dance clubs is because they are just so friggin loud.

I guess I was born in the wrong decade. My idea of a fun time dancing is getting dressed up, going somewhere where they play soft ballads, dancing slowly with my lady in my arms with me whispering sweet thoughts into her ear.

Sappy, ain't it?

I just don't find it fun going somewhere where the music is literally deafening where you have to get as close to your bitch's ear and scream as loud as you possibly can, "I'M GOING TO FIND THE PISSER!!! BUY ME A BEER!!!"

And the third reason I don't like dance clubs -- and possibly the most important reason -- I simply don't like to dance. I feel silly. I feel like everyone is looking at me. I don't have the goobers to go up to a total stranger and start grinding my crotch cowboy on her leg, so I just usually end up standing in the corner, grabbing my butt, and "lean bob bob bob" then "lean other way, bob bob bob."

Did I mention my clothes smell like a cigarette tray this morning? Yeck.


I ended up skipping my violin lesson yesterday. My busy weekend last week and the work days that had me coming home and going straight to bed allowed very little time for practicing.

Instead, I spent about three hours doing all of my laundry. And I had a lot.

For the longest time, instead of going to the laundromat when I ran out of underwear, socks, and t-shirts, I would just go to Wal-Mart and buy a whole new set. It allows me to go quite a long time without going to the cleaners, but when I do go, I almost have to make a day of it.

I had six loads of laundry yesterday, and half of it was whites. The rest were kewl winter clothes that don't get too messy, so I end up wearing dirty shirts all the time. But I am careful to not dirty them, and I wear lots of deoderant, so they don't stink for a while.

Any time I suspect the shirts may stink, I quickly retire them to the hamper. Kinda like my smokey shirt I wore last night. It smelled clothesline fresh when I put it on for class. Now, it is "ash tray stank."


Ok. I'll quit bitchning.

Which means I will have to shut down this entry. I have a lot of errands I have to do.

Namely, go spend $90 on a book for my grammar class that, if you bought any other book of comparable size, would cost $15. I have as many choice words for college bookstores as I do for tax-and-spend politicians.

But, like I said, no more bitching. When you can't say something nice, you shouldn't say anything at all.

10:52 p.m. - Fri., Jan. 31, 2003

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