Club Chronicles: The Wrong Shoes

My experience at the club last week was……eventful. So many things going on, and so many thoughts going through my head.

Big Girls.

Why are there so many? I know some will have you thinking its ok to be big, and “skinny women are evil.” Its not, and we are- but only because your big ass keeps stepping on my toes. Do your stanky leg and your dougie within a designated, invisible play pen. Stay in your big ass bubble, please and thank you.

What are these drops?

I can’t tell if this is sweat flying from the hard-working Mr. Bojangles sweating to death in his suit and sweater, or escaped spit from the hood baby reciting every word to “Put it in your mouth.” No, no, the exposed pipes are either leaking or dripping with condensation from this hot ass room.

I’m standing still for a reason.

Please do not attempt to dance with me if you see me standing still. I’m standing still for a reason. a) My feet hurt b) I don’t like this song c) I just don’t want to dance with YOU d) I can see your erection through your pants…..which brings me to the following:

What the hell is that poking me?

I understand that the club can be an exciting place. Scores of half-naked women making everything on their tight bodies shake and bounce to the beat, 5 of Souljah Boy’s top hits, complete with their respective dances, competitive drinking between you and your boys. I can see how the combination of all of the aforementioned can be overwhelming to you. But for Pete’s sake, please try and control yourself! If you can’t, please don’t think that I want to feel it when you come up and poke me from behind.

“Watch out! Its on you!”,

Jerica exclaimed as she shoved me out of harm’s way. The colors reflected from the disco ball can be very easily mistaken for an assassin’s laser. “They almost got you, girl!” I can’t lie, it was funny as hell.

Oh, you’re also from California?

Yeah, that still doesn’t make me want to give you my number. Oh, you’re a Marine? Happy belated Veteran’s Day and thanks for everything, but no, I haven’t changed my mind. How did you know I had a boyfriend? (I don’t) Because you knew I couldn’t be a lesbian? Oh. Swallow this if you can, but I’m just not that in to you.

Ouch! My eye!

Girl, watch where you’re swinging that synthetic shit! You damn near slit my eyeball when “Put yo hood up” came on. RUDE! Either tame that situation on your head, buy human hair, and/or calm that ass down. This is a direct order.


Nothing puzzles me more than seeing a table full of 5-10 men stuntin in VIP with their bottles of whatever. You look gay. All of yous. You look broke and self-conscious. Please invite a female or two. Hell, invite 10. Please don’t invite me unless you’re sharing liquor, and by liquor I don’t mean champagne. It makes me burp.

I should’ve worn my 4-hour shoes. These aren’t they, which is probably why this post is so bitchy. My damn shoes ruined my entire club experience. Lesson learned.

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