Clubbin'

4:34 p.m.

Last night we all went to Hurricane Harry's, a local College Station bar/club, and I remembered why it is that I don't go to clubs of any kind: they irritate the hell out of me. Too loud, too crowded, with an overpowering cigarette stench that makes my eyes water, and half the people there are idiots.

Mixed drinks were twenty-five cents, which was nice, but what that really means is that the alcoholic content of them is negligible at best, and believe me, at a certain point cherry vodka sours start to taste like ass and if you can't even get a buzz off of them, it's not worth it. I had to quit after my sixth one just to spare my taste buds.

The rest of the evening wasn't really up to my liking either. About 90% of the music played was this god-awful country crap that involves two-step dancing and the like, none of which really afford me the booty-shaking I prefer when getting jiggy on the dance floor.

I don't see how people meet at clubs. I really don't. I can't hear a word anybody's saying unless they scream it in my ear, so I'm pretty sure nobody's getting to know anybody on any kind of intellectual level.

At one point I had to go outside just to clear my head because I was starting to get one killer migraine and I was hot as hell, to boot, and when I finally went back in, it took me fifteen minutes just to cross over to the side of the clubs my friends were on because there was quite literally a wall of people. After a while I dispensed with the pleasantries of apologizing when I had to shove people out of my way because, let's face it, they couldn't hear me anyway.

I don't see myself doing this again until, much like a woman who is considering getting pregnant again, I have forgotten what an overall crap-ass experience it is.

Oh, for the record, guys that dress like cowboys look like fucking retards. Yeah, nice oversized belt buckle and hat combination. You must be Jackass the Clown. I thought you guys were supposed to wear big baggy pants. I'm surprised you're capable of having children, let alone actually walking around. You do it in that stiff-legged robot style, though, so I suppose it really just enhances your natural comedic powers.

Afterwards we came back to somewhat of a scary phenomenon - our entire apartment was unlocked. Our back door was even partially open. At first I thought Todd just didn't do a real great job with the lock-down, but then I noticed that our front door was unlocked as well, and I remember locking that one myself before we left. Todd went right back out the door once we were back, so Ryan and I searched our place top to bottom, but nothing was missing, so I'm not really sure what to think. There's nothing to really dwell on since nothing was taken, but it's still sort of disconcerting to think that somebody may or may not have been in our apartment while we weren't there.

Intruders best not mess with Lee, though. I'm well versed in all forms of Shaolin Lee-Fu. You better believe that I'm capable of doing all kinds of wicked cool handsprings, roundhouse kicks, and brain-eating. Just like I learned from my Zombie Ninja Squad back in the day.

Wa-Taaaaaaaaa!

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