goes down like juice comes up like LSD
Every year everyone who has gone to my high school in the past decade goes to this bar called China City on the night before Thanksgiving and every year it is equally appalling. Pretty much every year someone threatens not to go by saying something like, “I am NOT going to Chinasty this year,” and pretty much every year we are forced to convince this person to go by saying things like, “Are you kidding? It’s gonna be so fun!” And we don’t even say this ironically, because it’s one of those things where either everyone goes and it sucks, but at least everyone is sucking together or not everyone goes and it sucks, but you also feel like a loser, and have no one to talk to about how bad of a time you’re having.
So after much passive aggressive texting about the true meaning of friendship, Chloe agrees to drive her parents’ mini-van over and the rest of us go inside. It’s the kind of divey yet club-like atmosphere that immediately makes you want to start saying things like, “I’m sorry, is this Too Short I’m hearing? Nice.” And you might actually let this thing escape your mouth if you hadn’t just become so socially awkward that you literally wish you could say something as intelligent as, “I love Too Short,” because that would be better than standing here like a mute and staring blankly at your Bud Light, while you think about nothing.
Of course the only remedy at this point is to make this Bud Light into 12 Bud Lights, but you don’t even have the motivation to do that, because it only means you will have to wait 12 times as long to drive home. You periodically glance up from your circle of friends, looking for someone you may have once known, and honestly every single person in this bar is one of those people, and that’s the most horrible part about it.
Your eye starts twitching from saying things like, “Oh I’m good, just living it up in San Fran,” as though you feel comfortable saying the words “San Fran” and spend every night in a club just like this one, only 12 billion times better, with people who are devastatingly good-looking and like Paris Hilton you actually get paid to be there. For a brief moment you think you are Paris Hilton, and this serves to remind you of the level of narcissism that you and your friends displayed in high school when you would sit around your lunch table and instead of eating, would glare at everyone including each other in a manner not at all unlike what you are doing at this very moment.
It’s this kind of nostalgia of course that we spend most of our lives trying to avoid, which begs the question of why you are here in the first place, not on Earth, but here at China City. You and your friends realize simultaneously that you are not being paid for this appearance, or being forced to be here by the vice principal, and as you make a mad dash for the car you are ecstatic as only people who have veered off the crowded road, not travelled on holidays, skipped the opening of New Moon, can be, and that makes all the difference.