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Turning 22 seemed irrelevant. After all, you’ve been able to legally drink in public for a year, so how much could life change other than the cold, unforgiving world of postgrad creeping up on you closer than ever? Surely, 22 would still yield countless adventures of drunken nights turned mornings that 21 produced, right? Wrong. I made a great life revelation when I turned 22: I hate clubs.
Yeah, I said it. Hate me for it. I absolutely despise clubs and the club scene. I mean clubs like dance clubs with a party scene, not normal beer joint type bars. At one point in time I did enjoy it. A lot, actually. As soon as you’re newly minted as a legal alcoholic in society, the prospect of a dance club blasting loud EDM music until the early hours of the morning seems amazing. You pay no attention to the senseless cover charges, overpriced liquor, and music so loud you probably can’t hear yourself think. It seems even better when you realize that if it’s a decent, self-respecting place of business, it’s probably full of gorgeous women. Your chances of getting drunk and laid grow astronomically and you think to yourself, this, this is what I’ve been waiting my entire life for, and it’s worth it!
Newsflash: It’s not worth it. As soon as that high and adrenaline rush of being 22 wears off, those clubs that seemed like heaven on earth become a living hell. The grandeur wears away and you realize it’s a miserable place to be. Alcohol is so expensive you can most likely get a six pack at your friendly, neighborhood liquor store for a price of one drink at the club. The past few times I went to a club I didn’t even get drunk because I literally didn’t have enough money to pay for it. It was like my bank account was forcing sobriety on me or something. Next you realize the DJ is most likely a wanna-be Skrillex whose day job is working part time at a Cheesecake Factory so he can afford the rent in his parents’ basement. You go out expecting a good time, and next thing you know it’s 2:00 a.m., you’re probably a few hundred dollars poorer, and you have a ringing in your ears that won’t go away as you stumble into your Uber in the shady parking lot.
Maybe I’m biased. After all, I’m from the Jersey shore. Any and all clubs I would go to are degenerate hangouts once inhabited by Snooki and JWow. Now they’re populated by wanna be guidos who took the parkway south down from New York. And have you ever seen how crowded these clubs get? Look, I’m all down for drinking, hanging out with friends, and meeting new people, but I’d rather not do it in a place that’s as crowded as a bottom tier frat party on syllabus week filled to the brim with over excited freshmen.
Before you all bitch at me for sounding like an old grumpy man, which maybe I’m turning into, I still love going out and drinking. Maybe just instead of going to the cesspools that are clubs, go to a nice bar instead. One that will allow you to hang out, have a few beers with friends, and not worrying about a drunk sorority girl throwing up on your shoes.
Most of us outgrew the overcrowded party scene freshman year, but there’s no shame in heading back to that lifestyle. I know I’ll probably go to a club soon. Once I go back there, I’ll probably only be able to last 20 minutes before I hate my life and wish I was at a sports bar instead..
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