During the weekend, I came to the conclusion that waiting in line to get into a bar is probably the fastest way to annihilate a good time. For those of you who hang out in Midtown, you know what I’m talking about.
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There is a little dog that lives in my apartment complex that is driving me absolutely, positively crazy. Although I have never laid eyes on this beast, I can hear it. Oh, how I hear this dog. My guess is that it is a tiny thing, a “toy” something or other, because from the sound of its bark — no, wait, bark is too strong of a word — from the sound of its yip-yip-yappy-yip, there is no way the creature has a vocal box larger than a dime. Yet the shrill, pulsating, random yelps it transmits throughout the morning, afternoon, evening and late night hours are so ridiculously obnoxious, this ammunition gives infuriating proof that a bark is so much stronger than a bite. Seriously, this dog needs to shut the hell up. But it doesn’t, it hasn’t for months, and its selfish owner does not care about how his or her pet affects the rest of the neighborhood. As a result, I have waged war with the monster. Fear this wrath.
I know what you're all expecting. You're expecting a full-force rant founded on one or more of the following positions: "What a BS Hallmark holiday," "Yeah, it's awesome if you're in love, but I'm not, so thanks for reminding me of my solitude, jerk," "Boohoo, NOBODY LOVES ME," "Aw, look at the girl with the bouquet of roses. I'm so HAPPY for her. Not," "That couple staring dreamily into each others' eyes make me want to gouge my own out." You get the idea.
My opinion is on the fence when it comes to dance clubs. On one hand, I can't get enough of them. But on the other, hitting up the club often makes me wonder what I'm doing with my life. These thoughts usually occur to me post-club as I scarf a huge, greasy slice at 2:30 a.m., drunk and kicking myself for sending "I miss you" text messages to exes.
Over the weekend, I got to thinking about the implications of the dance club cover charge. Essentially an admission fare into a land of fun, the door fee resounds for most of us as a common annoyance that we overlook in order to fulfill an evening need. In some ways, the anticipation generated while waiting is better than the reality on the other side. As I stood in a meandering-yet-moving line of hopefuls unluckily absent from a promoter's guest list, I observed a number of kiddies chattering and texting as they anxiously killed time. Even though the line had yet to cross the path of the bouncer blockade, I could detect a general sense of excitement in the dolled-up crowd. Hair and makeup had not yet been mussed by the humidity that results from gyrating hips, and untucked oxford shirts were still crisp and free of drunkie spill stains. The night was young, the mob was hot and the prospect of an epic night was still an option.
One of the biggest differences of opinion that has been characterizing Gainesville lately lies in the split personality of Mother Nature. A literal night-and-day contrast, the weather over the past week has not only confused my wardrobe but has also influenced my decision-making abilities in other areas of life. Shakespeare was onto something with the words, "To be, or not to be?" for that is the question that shall forever remain unanswered in some way, shape or form. Add or drop? Pass or fail? Spend or save? Stay single or swing? Continue or quit? Hibernate or hobnob?
Call me cornball, but I love the holiday baggage that carries from late-November through early-January. I'm one of those people who devour the spirit of the season, as if it were some sort of delicious, joy-regenerative side dish that accompanies the Thanksgiving turkey. Sending cards, baking cookies, watching cartoon specials, wrapping witty-yet-sentimentally-personalized gifts — name anything traditional that has to do with the concluding six weeks of the year, and I'm all over it. Now, my reason for mentioning this is not to attempt torture by igniting festive yearning in your hearts; I bring up my interest in the holidays because 2011's were probably the worst I have ever experienced. Folks, I didn't even send cards this year. This really pisses me off.