The Nightclub

I’ve only been to a night club once in my life.

Yes, I am 22, and I have only been to a nightclub once.
Well, technically, I have been to one before, but I went with my parents and some other aunties and uncles, so does that really count?
It was early, and the place was dead so, I don’t think so.

My first TRUE nightclub experience began with my sister’s hen’s night. I honestly did not know what to expect.

I’d seen nightclubs in movies; they looked foggy, crowded and like they should have an epileptic seizure warning at the entrance.

Before we went to the nightclub, we went to a bar. 

It wasn’t so bad, I thought, as I wound past the groups of men, desperately roving for unoccupied girls to talk to. The smell of smoke was somewhat overpowering in certain areas, but it wasn’t anything I could handle. 

The girls bought glasses of wine and started chatting. 

I ended up awkward-turtle-ing as they discussed their work and romantic issues. I, of course, with my minimal experience in those areas, listened quietly, while pretending to sip my wine and nodding occasionally.

I was never a drinker, and I didn’t enjoy, nor understand why people enjoyed alcohol, so I would wait until one of the girls had finished their glass and then say,

After they’d made their way through a bottle, they headed to the nightclub. By this time, I was already starting to suffer.

I’d come back from 4 years of vet school for my sister’s wedding, where I’d worn nothing but sneakers, wellingtons and safety boots. So, high heels were a novelty to my feet and they were not being kind to me.

Silently cursing my decision of beauty over comfort, I hobbled after the girls, towards the nightclub.

Surprisingly, the bouncers didn’t stop me from entering. I’d been stopped outside cinemas while trying to get into a PG-15 movie before, thanks to baby-face syndrome.

It was everything I’d expected.

The flashing lights. The loud music. The people bumping into each other. A random girl grinding on some random guy.

I was terrified.

But I had to play it cool. I was 21.

21 year olds did things like this, right?

So, I had to push through. Then, when I grow old, I can look back at myself proudly and tell my grandchildren,

I enjoy dancing, so I managed to, somehow, screen out the disturbing environment as I danced to the regrettably terrible music.

Then, it got worse.

More people piled in as the night progressed, and the dance-floor was so packed that there wasn’t enough space to even twitch without elbowing someone in the stomach.

Then a fight broke out.

And we left as quick as we could.

Also, my sister was absolutely jiggered after a few shots.

I’d never been near a really drunk person before, but there she was, my own sister, unable to walk in a straight line.

I suppose I went into shock at that point, my poor sheltered heart could not handle it. But my mind was as clear as glass, and I watched calmly as she stumbled headfirst down a short flight of stairs.

Okay, maybe my mind was not so clear. It was in a tranquil state of frozen solid. Protecting itself.

At this point, I’d gone into full robot mode.

I helped the girls steer her to a bench and one of them fetched her water from a nearby fast-food joint.

Then we waited for our parents to pick us up. I was resigned to our fate.

I knew they were going to be pissed, just as any traditional Asian parent would be.

When they arrived, I casually slipped into the seat and, as we started driving, my sister looked at me and whispered,

I then turned to my father, who was driving and said,

Because my brain decided it would be safer to say that I was sick, and not the obviously drunk person beside me. Yeah, that would save us. Sure.

Unfortunately, he didn’t hear me on time, and my sis rolled down the window and ralphed all over the side of the car.

And a little bit even got inside.

Well, I tried.

And thus, ended my first experience in a nightclub, further cementing in my belief that I would not enjoy it. 

Do I regret going? 

No, I needed the experience. So, that I would stop glorifying it.

Different folks, different strokes!

Pubs are more my speed, if they’ve got a good band playing.

The Bully - Part Two

When I was in middle school, I was a fantastic dork.

Round, gold-rimmed glasses that were too big for my face and pig-tails, that were the real cherry atop the disastrous sundae of puberty. 

I had a fantastic set of friends, no doubt about it, but they could not do much to save me from being the butt of many jokes.

Literally.

I’d spend majority of the class getting glue-sticks, empty bottles, erasers and crushed up paper balls thrown at the back of my head, while I sat there, not really sure what I was supposed to do about it.

The really cliché message of ‘Tell your teacher’ that everyone loves to dish out, didn’t do much. The teacher scolded them, and walked off to her next class, leaving me to face the next wave of projectile objects.

 The ‘Tell your parents’ part… what kid at that age, would want their parents to come to school and make a fuss over bullies? 

Because, in the end, the news would spread like wildfire, and I would end up being ‘that kid who got bullied’ for the rest of my dismal school life.

So, I took it… and eventually, I got some of my own back, when I finally lost my cool.

One of my bullies came up to me and taunted me,

And he lowered his face close, pointing at his jaw mockingly.

So, I did it.

In my defence, he was asking for it. Also, it pays to be nice to your teachers, because that could have gotten me into real trouble, had any of them believed what he’d said.

So, I got away scot-free, and he got away with a painful jaw.

This wave of bullying eventually ended, but only because three new, much more formidable bullies stepped into their territory.

 

Let’s call them A1, A2, and A3.

A1 was the ‘leader’ of the pack, and the one who started it all. I can’t recall how or when it began, but I know that the three of them, for some unfathomable reason, decided that I would be their target for the school year.

 

Karma probably had something to do with it, thanks to my elementary school experiences.

Anyway, I would get my desk shoved, my notes stolen and put on top of the teacher’s cupboard, which I couldn’t reach thanks to me being vertically challenged.

A1 did most of the bullying, while A2 helped out occasionally. A3 was the Vincent Crabbe of the trio, and a bit dim and slow, so he mostly just laughed and stood to a side.

 

I’d already experienced my share of bullying by then, so I wasn’t too horribly affected by it anymore, other than feeling slightly annoyed. 

In a way, being bullied prior to this made me way more ballsy, and this time around, I was actually able to face my foes and… well, glare at them. Angrily.

It all turned around somehow, though, in a strange way. I don’t know how teenage boys think, and I don’t think I ever will, but they are like a faulty tube-light. Are you on or are you off?

However, I like to imagine that I scared them. 

Which, looking at me, is totally not the case.

A1 stole my notebook and my calculator once again, casually popping them on top of the teacher’s cupboard. He’d done it one too many times, and managed to summon an angry red monster inside of me, that made me stand up, slam my hands down on his table and shout;

After A1 stared at me, looking surprised, I realised what I’d done and shrank back into a mouse, trying to reach my book and calculator.

It was after that, that things began to change.

A1 took my eraser and put it on top of the teacher’s cupboard. I stared at him and asked him to give it back.

He told me to get it myself.
I told him to ‘Give it back, please.’ (See? I’m polite.) 

A2 then stood up, went over to the cupboard, took down my eraser, placed it in my palm, and went back to his desk without a word.

 
Needless to say, I was shocked.
I didn’t think they’d actually listen.

Following that, my bullying life slowly shriveled up and disappeared. 

During PE classes, we would play basketball and A2 would actually put me on his team. Not that I was bad at basketball, but I was pretty short, and he was a bully.
But I didn’t question it.

Because school-life was getting better and free of drama.

So, all in all, it ended well. 

Neither A1, A2 or A3 ever bullied me again, and they left my class the next year. The boys who used to bully me before, became friends with me. In fact, one of them became my best friend in high school. Funny, right?

I didn’t see A1 or A3 after that, but I did see A2 at my high school graduation ceremony. As I was leaving the hall, I saw him walking past. Surprisingly enough, he recognised me, despite me dropping the round glasses and pigtails (THANK GOD), and he held out his hand for a high-five.

And, on the way out of my high school graduation, I high-fived one of my middle school bullies.

I still regret being the bully in elementary school.
But I don’t regret being bullied.

It’s allowed me to sympathise with others who are lonely, or suffering- and for me, it ended well and on good terms, so I was lucky, I guess.

Really lucky.

The Bully - Part One

I’ve had a lot of experience with bullying during my short life.

I am not proud of my earlier life experiences (somewhere around elementary school) and I’m somewhat grateful for my later life experiences (middle school).

I was a right brat in elementary school.

I had two friends… let’s call them Stuart (not like the mouse) and Norbert (not like the Norwegian ridgeback).

They were two equally naughty little boys, and somehow, I ended up befriending them. I can’t blame them completely for my snottiness, but I suspect they played a part in shaping my actions at the time.

But don’t get me wrong- I was very much aware of what I was doing, and it was very much my own fault.

We used to bunk class together! Can you believe that?

To this day, I am still unable to fathom how any teacher managed to overlook our trio’s disappearance for a majority of the day, without suspecting anything!

I recall, very clearly, one fine, sunny day, we’d left the class and were walking around aimlessly like the bad-asses that we were.

We went around to the edge of the school, where a wire-mesh fence separated the playground from the dead wasteland on the other side and Stuart whipped out his willy right then and there, to pee through the wire-mesh.

I cringe when I think of it now, but back then, I didn’t think much of it. He wanted to pee? Go ahead! Try aiming at that dried out plant over there! Ha ha, good job!

Anyway, this story isn’t about willies. It’s about bullying.

So… in a way, I guess it is about a bunch of dicks, now that I think about it.

I’m going off track.

So, in my class, there was a cute little girl with braids- let’s call her Anna.

She was a quiet girl, she didn’t really talk to anyone and she cried easily- an easy target for three naughty kids.

I can’t remember clearly, what we did to her, but we were mean. We made fun of her, called her names- the usual bully-bull. The only thing I remember clearly, is when I was to sit next to her for some assignment of sorts, and I refused. When the teacher asked me why, I replied with an eloquently formed answer;

“She’s smelly!”

And Anna cried, while the teacher rolled her eyes.

Back then, I reasoned she was being silly, and was crying for no reason, but when I look back at it now, I realise she must have been very lonely, and the three of us trouble-making jerks were simply adding fuel to the fire, by being mean.

I regret being who I was back then, but karma helped me pay back for what I’d done, by putting me at the receiving end of the bullying spectrum later on. BIG TIME.