Why I Don't Really Like Going to Bars but Do Anyway

I don't actually enjoy it.  Going out on Friday or Saturday night is the kind of joy that comes from a surprise gift, but only a surprise that you'd be upset if it didn't come.  I see my friends.  I’m usually bored within 15 minutes.  I’m not bored with them; I’m just really bored with myself.  You can change the backdrop all you want, but you really still have to be in your own skin.   I just really hate being by myself.  It's better to distribute this codependency on everyone that some unsuspecting girl in a relationship.  That way, at least, everyone shares the burden pretty evenly.  I only enjoy knowing that I didn't waste one more night in this veritable ticking time bomb to adulthood.  I've heard the stories.  It doesn't sound fun.  I take a sip of overpriced beer that'll probably shorten my life by five minutes from a glass bottle and toss the bottle into the trash where it'll outlive me by a thousand years in a landfill somewhere.  The fun begins at 21, but it's really the beginning of the end.  I know that I'm going to just die anyway, but I still choose to live anyway.  So one more drink.  The days are numbered.  Each drink is an anesthetic that slowly kills us but quickly makes us feel alive.  The secret to having fun while dying slowly is moderation.  Each day has equal length, but they seem to be going by faster and faster.  Maybe it's not time that's moving so fast, but everyone around me.  The most interesting place to go is anywhere you haven't been and know you won’t go.  Every bar is like a buffet of fading looks. I wonder if bars are dark because we’re all hiding a little part of ourselves.  We drink to become someone else and hide away.  There’s no better escape from reality than where nobody is themselves.  Dim the lights and put chemical sunglasses on and it’s just enough to make the lamest loser seem cool and mysterious until he opens his mouth.