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January 17, 2012

I feel so sick before I go to the club alone. Sick to my stomach, I was taking pills after I got off the highway, to keep my stomach under control.

As soon as I walk in, everything feels normal. It's what I always wanted to experience before I turned 18, being in a dark room with people who liked the same music I liked. I want to dance with a lot of attractive women, but I don't like trying. So I mostly just like dancing alone. I alternate between being totally cynical and lost in music. I look at the really young ones, who are attractive when they seem like maybe just maybe maybe maybe I could possibly be attractive to one, and then less attractive when I think they'd never go for me, and I see the costumes they put on, the attitudes they obviously haven't fully cultivated at that age. They haven't had the time. I watch the people dance in circles, with their friends. How insecure do you have to be to dance in a damned circle. But I used to do that, too.

And everything, at a certain point, seems kind of wanting, like there's something missing. I wish there were people here with me, but the one person I was supposed to meet flaked. Drug addict, figures. Been clean less than a year. Figures. I was glad not to have found out until I was there, otherwise I'd have just stayed home.

A beautiful girl across the room near the end of the night, I keep staring at her. I almost leave at the same time as her, maybe it'd be fate. Maybe I'm creating a spirituality since I have none.
I do leave shortly, after, though. I want to stay longer, but I don't really want to be there anymore, either, do I? What am I looking for, I wonder. And then I think, maybe it's not the club that I am desperately clinging, to. But just few hours out of the obsessive-compulsive disorder that rots my humanity away at home. I'm driving back, and I wonder if there were a place I felt safe, maybe I'd be okay staying there. Maybe I wouldn't insist on staying out past midnight, because to go home before midnight is to admit loneliness.