Fuck The Club

I don’t fuck with the club

If you’ve partied in Atlanta for over ten years, I can’t possibly see how you’d still get excited to go to the club. It is astounding to see folks my age still get riled up with the idea of the club. At 31, the idea of waiting in line for upwards of 10–15 minutes (sometimes longer), getting violently patted down by overzealous security, forking over $10–20 (possibly more if you have a hat on) for entry, not having a guaranteed seat upon entry, and having to yell a drink order over someone seated at the bar is just exhausting. It’s easy to generate the requisite energy for this, weekend after weekend, at 21. At that age, your body is like Wolverine, recovery is seamless and automatic. At 31, that sounds like two Alka Seltzer’s, a gallon of Pedialyte and a Sunday spent laying in bed under a blanket, praying your hangover mercifully ends before you have to go to work the next day.

Going to the club is also annoying because young kids and out of towners all act like tough guys and the slightest bump in a crowded space might set off some nonsense. Brother, relax, I’m just trying to get my overpriced drink out the way, I didn’t mean to bump you. No one is trying to disrespect or whatnot. I just want to sip my beverage in peace. Another underrated nuisance is being hassled by the bathroom attendant. All you did was cut the faucet on. I’m not leaving you a fucking tip. Water isn’t even hot either. That one paper towel you gave me does not mean I’m going to “show love”. This is fucking Libra.