Take a Deetour

"I write to find out what I think." - Joan Didion

Thursday, February 03, 2005

Thump Thump Thump Clink Bleeaauugghh

And that sums up a night out for me.

burn baby burn... the world according to boothwoman

Clubs are less and less appealing. Sure sign of age, as they say. I still like dancing, definitely like the drinking part, but when everyone's a decade younger than you and look like they're having a waaaay better time, it's time to throw in the towel, skulk away to a dark (quiet) corner and nurse your very grown-up drink.

As we get older, we're supposed to get wiser, more confident. But when you're in Club-cuckoo-land, that (alleged) universal truth gets turned on its head and it's a free-for-all(who are young, horny and nubile/virile). In that cloying netherworld, I am testament to old, stupid and insecure. Throw me in with the prebubescent piranhas and watch me reduce to bone (Think thin... THINK THIN!).

So why can't I club anymore?
It takes too long to prepare.
The many layers of armour are too heavy, too taxing to assume. I have been defrocked.
A bathtubful of makeup, a marinade of perfume won't hide anything. The spackle reminds me of misty, heathen days, of a skin I shed long ago.

Some days, though, I find myself in the pulsating darkness, breathing the fumes of sweat, drink and cigs, let out a shout of joy and dance. Just dance.
Warpaint firmly on, the better to keep everything else off.
And for a moment, I'm invisible.


Don’t be mad at me, Cuz your pushing thirty,
And your old tricks no longer work.
You should have known from the jump, That you always get dumped,
So dust off your f**k me pumps.

*** Amy W(h)inehouse