Damn, I really am pretty touchy when it comes to some things. I never expect certain things to affect me so much, but things often creep up on me. When I least expect it, I can be struck by a total feeling of dumbassness. Sometimes I anticipate it, and I’m ready because I know I’m up against a potentially embarrassing situation. Other times, it sneaks up on me and I leave a situation or exchange with a feeling humiliation and self-doubt. If I could, I would escape from all situations that could be potentially pride-damaging. I know what I’m writing doesn’t make much sense, I’m just lamenting another situation I found myself in. Let’s move to other topics shall we? Good.
On the real tip, I’ve decided that I don’t really care for “going out.” I mean, I’m a totally social person, and I love hanging out and partying with friends. It’s strange, certain forms of “going out” are completely acceptable, and even desirable, to me. Things like going to a movie, going out to a restaurant, or hitting a brewpub. I don’t, however, enjoy going to dance clubs, discotheques, high-falootin’ or swanky bars, or seedy bars with crappy bands playing. Mostly I like little pub-like places were you can sit and eat/drink/talk with friends. If I had my choice, I’d hang out exclusively at either those kind of places – or ever better someone’s house. The idea of “going out” does nothing to add extra excitement to activities for me, I just don’t get a charge from it. In fact, in most cases it detracts from the potential excitement. I know, it’s anti-social, and hermity, and stubborn.
If I think about it though, I’ve never been a fan of going out on the town and getting blasted, and I loathe dancing. I’m not in the market for a significant other, and $6 beers don’t taste any better to me than $6 six-packs. I guess when most people get pumped for a night on the town, they get excited inside at the prospects of “going out” and what the evening may hold. I just don’t get that for some reason, at least in relation to going out. I mostly think about what time we’ll be getting home and if there’ll still be time to read some on my book or relax. Jeez, reading that last sentence I might as well have said something about wanting to get home and watch Star Trek or work with my chemistry set. Bottom line is that I’m a huge tool.
At frist I wanted to write about it and rationalize it by saying I did most of my “crazy fun” stuff a lot earlier than some people. Thinking that by college, I was already pretty much retired from going out and getting crazy. I’d had my fill. But then I realized that’s kinda stupid reasoning, because you can’t really “use up” all the party in you, and there will always be times that I’ll get the itch. So it’s harder to explain I guess.
All that said, I do tend to blow in the wind a bit – and occasionally the very things I just said I hate sound oddly OK to me. I’ll find myself agreeing to go out thinking, “hey, this sounds kinda fun.” When the evening’s events end up being “going out,” more often than not I go so not to appear as a total grump and wallflower. I never have a completely suicide-inducing time, but I rarely burn down the barn. So maybe I’m not completely geriatric inside, but I’m close. I suppose I’m what’s called a “homebody,” and I’m cool with that.
Haha, I don’t even know what “burn down the barn” even means in that last paragraph. I totally wrote and I had no idea. Like a spirit took over my fingers and typed it. An Amish sprit maybe. I guess I was thinking of the term “barnburner” or something.
Dave out. Well, not “out” like “going out,” or “coming out.” Just out.