Happy Mother's Day to me.
Thought of the day: clubs should be off-limits to non-smokers and non-drinkers.
For the first time in my life, I spent an entirely sober night clubbing at RCA. I quit smoking and drinking for obvious reasons 7 weeks ago, and let's just say: it was a whole new world. Things looked entirely different in the eyes of an entirely sober person than they did in my old party animal eyes:
-> Woo girls - of which I used to be one - are actually downright annoying. What are they so happy about? Do you even *know* the song that is playing? And, if you do, why can't you seem to get into the rhythm of the beat as you flail your arms around like a drunken monkey? What's even worse than the woo girls who scream 'wooooo!' are the woo girls who actually have boyfriends and still try to woo guys. Except, at Overdoze, they can't use the whole "I wanted him to buy me a drink" excuse since it's open bar all night, so what excuse do you have, besides being a whore? Now, it's fine, if you admit to me that you're horny or your boyfriend is in another country or you're having trouble with your guy or all of the above. But don't go acting all "I don't know what you're talking about" when, really, you're just a flirty slut.
-> Guys, in the dark and with beer-goggled eyes, are always cute. They don't even have to dance well. As long as he has lips to kiss and a body to grind with, everything's fine and dandy - screw his age, his relationship status and the state of his clothes or hair. Unfortunately, the truth is: the cute guys in Bangkok - screwing their age, relationship status, clothes and hair - can be counted on the fingers of one hand. You can even chop off a few.
-> The lights and the music of 808... ouch. How did I ever used to survive that place without walking out every five minutes to get my sight and eardrums back? Now, I can't even do *that* because the minute I walk out, I'm surrounded by a cloud of smoke from the smokers who stepped outside for a smoke. Solution: ear plugs and sunglasses. The sunglasses were surprisingly easy to find. The ear plugs? Not-so-easy. And you can't *talk* in places like 808. You have to *scream* just to say things like "I love this song." or "Where's ?" or"WHAT?", which seemed to be the question I asked for most of the night.
-> Couples who grind on dancefloors like they're having sex, but with clothes on, are actually utterly disgusting, yet in that OMG-car-crash-OMG-people-a
re-bleeding-on-the-sidewalks way, where you can't seem to look away, no matter how much it makes you gag. GET A ROOM. Or a toilet cubicle. Seriously. Everyone will be happier if you just fuck already. (And yes, I know I have been guilty of this dryhumping dance thrice - those who were witnesses to this: forgive me.) Speaking of getting things, some girls need to learn how to get some clothes. It was skankville in some areas of that club.
Before the club even actually closed, the untz-untz-untz of the speakers finally got to me. My stomach started cramping like crazy, as if to say "Baby's tired, Mommy. Time to go to sleep.", which is naturally a euphemism for "What the fuck is all that noise, Ma? You call this proper parenting?" It was past midnight - Happy Mother's Day to me! - and I walked my tired, flip-flop-wedgied feet to Mike's car.
On the way there, we ran into the stoners, who asked me if I was Angel's sister. I spent around twenty minutes trying to convince them that I was, in fact, Angel, and not "Angel's sister" but they didn't believe me. Apparently, I was much skinnier (loss of appetite), much shorter (one-inch heels instead of my usual five-inchers) and had different hair (haircut last weekend). They stared at me ("Angel looks different."), sniffed me ("Angel smells different."), measured my height ("Angel is taller.") and pinched my cheeks ("You're so *not* Angel.") Then, I got questioned about James - because, apparently, only Angel would know things about James.
There was also a guy there, whom I had never spoken to in my life, who asked me if I was pregnant. I told him I was. And for the first time since I found out I was pregnant, I heard someone say "Congratulations." He made my night. Unfortunately, he followed it up with "Are you married?", which was sort of like pouring a bucket of salt into a huge wound. "No," I choked. "No, I'm not." "Why not?" someone else asked. How was I going to put this lightly? "He didn't propose"? "I'm actually the only one out of both of our families that is truly ecstatic about this news"? "I was meant to die alone"? I said nothing. And I was more than ready to leave.
I spent two more hours in bed after that, cramping and crying from the pain. Today, I woke up cramp-free and hangover-free, though with a sore throat from all my conversational screaming, and realized I was more than ready to leave that all behind now. Happy Mother's Day to me.
For the first time in my life, I spent an entirely sober night clubbing at RCA. I quit smoking and drinking for obvious reasons 7 weeks ago, and let's just say: it was a whole new world. Things looked entirely different in the eyes of an entirely sober person than they did in my old party animal eyes:
-> Woo girls - of which I used to be one - are actually downright annoying. What are they so happy about? Do you even *know* the song that is playing? And, if you do, why can't you seem to get into the rhythm of the beat as you flail your arms around like a drunken monkey? What's even worse than the woo girls who scream 'wooooo!' are the woo girls who actually have boyfriends and still try to woo guys. Except, at Overdoze, they can't use the whole "I wanted him to buy me a drink" excuse since it's open bar all night, so what excuse do you have, besides being a whore? Now, it's fine, if you admit to me that you're horny or your boyfriend is in another country or you're having trouble with your guy or all of the above. But don't go acting all "I don't know what you're talking about" when, really, you're just a flirty slut.
-> Guys, in the dark and with beer-goggled eyes, are always cute. They don't even have to dance well. As long as he has lips to kiss and a body to grind with, everything's fine and dandy - screw his age, his relationship status and the state of his clothes or hair. Unfortunately, the truth is: the cute guys in Bangkok - screwing their age, relationship status, clothes and hair - can be counted on the fingers of one hand. You can even chop off a few.
-> The lights and the music of 808... ouch. How did I ever used to survive that place without walking out every five minutes to get my sight and eardrums back? Now, I can't even do *that* because the minute I walk out, I'm surrounded by a cloud of smoke from the smokers who stepped outside for a smoke. Solution: ear plugs and sunglasses. The sunglasses were surprisingly easy to find. The ear plugs? Not-so-easy. And you can't *talk* in places like 808. You have to *scream* just to say things like "I love this song." or "Where's ?" or"WHAT?", which seemed to be the question I asked for most of the night.
-> Couples who grind on dancefloors like they're having sex, but with clothes on, are actually utterly disgusting, yet in that OMG-car-crash-OMG-people-a
re-bleeding-on-the-sidewalks way, where you can't seem to look away, no matter how much it makes you gag. GET A ROOM. Or a toilet cubicle. Seriously. Everyone will be happier if you just fuck already. (And yes, I know I have been guilty of this dryhumping dance thrice - those who were witnesses to this: forgive me.) Speaking of getting things, some girls need to learn how to get some clothes. It was skankville in some areas of that club.
Before the club even actually closed, the untz-untz-untz of the speakers finally got to me. My stomach started cramping like crazy, as if to say "Baby's tired, Mommy. Time to go to sleep.", which is naturally a euphemism for "What the fuck is all that noise, Ma? You call this proper parenting?" It was past midnight - Happy Mother's Day to me! - and I walked my tired, flip-flop-wedgied feet to Mike's car.
On the way there, we ran into the stoners, who asked me if I was Angel's sister. I spent around twenty minutes trying to convince them that I was, in fact, Angel, and not "Angel's sister" but they didn't believe me. Apparently, I was much skinnier (loss of appetite), much shorter (one-inch heels instead of my usual five-inchers) and had different hair (haircut last weekend). They stared at me ("Angel looks different."), sniffed me ("Angel smells different."), measured my height ("Angel is taller.") and pinched my cheeks ("You're so *not* Angel.") Then, I got questioned about James - because, apparently, only Angel would know things about James.
There was also a guy there, whom I had never spoken to in my life, who asked me if I was pregnant. I told him I was. And for the first time since I found out I was pregnant, I heard someone say "Congratulations." He made my night. Unfortunately, he followed it up with "Are you married?", which was sort of like pouring a bucket of salt into a huge wound. "No," I choked. "No, I'm not." "Why not?" someone else asked. How was I going to put this lightly? "He didn't propose"? "I'm actually the only one out of both of our families that is truly ecstatic about this news"? "I was meant to die alone"? I said nothing. And I was more than ready to leave.
I spent two more hours in bed after that, cramping and crying from the pain. Today, I woke up cramp-free and hangover-free, though with a sore throat from all my conversational screaming, and realized I was more than ready to leave that all behind now. Happy Mother's Day to me.