For the first time in almost a decade, Brandon went to a dance club. And it wasn't anything like he remembered from his college days.
Brandon cried a little. At first on the inside, but then eventually on the outside, and cursed the date who had damned him so. He sipped his Coke reluctantly.
But it's not just clubs. The other day I (Bryan) went to a concert with my wife and felt like an absolute geezer. It was full to the brim with the drunkest, sluttiest teenagers I've ever seen. Girls in dresses so tiny someone could floss with them, stumbling and rambling and screaming at the top of their lungs, and not even out of high school. A rapist's wet dream, really. But now that I'm older, it's not really my scene, and especially something I'm not comfortable with at a packed bar.
*True fucking story. Bitch almost got shanked.
Either I need to rethink my taste in music, or I'm a 20-something year old grandpa, because all I could think of while I was at that concert was how the drunk hoochies keep getting younger and younger.
And so it goes. The both of us recently discovered that we're not quite as young as we used to be. Maybe we ought to leave those clubbin' days buried in the deepest pits of our tweenish memory banks and just keep doing what most 28-year-olds do. We'll stick to the laid-back bar scene, where they serve beer without subjecting you to wearing a neon paper bracelet to prove your age. It's where we feel safe.
Cheers and stay classy, folks,
Beer: Shiner Red Hare
Music: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club