Belated post written in angst... sorry...

Finally when I think I might actually enjoy clubbing (I've had the right drinks, someone's paid for my tequila sunrise, people telling me I look great... I'm such a vain pot, so sue me... I'm having all these brilliant conversations with people I don't know, and someone's actually gotten the DJ to play the right music... or else stuck a knife to his back, my girlfriends and I are on the dance floor with all the right grooves) then everything starts to go wrong. Idiots try to push you to get all sorts of nauseous concoctions. The bloody bastard who bought me a drink now thinks he bloody owns me and is trying to monopolise every conversation I'm having with someone else. You realise that exposing more skin when dressing also means coming into contact with more sweaty people which is extremely gross. I learnt that some guys just don't know when to shut up about how many patents they have (this is the curse of studying in Imperial College of *SCIENCE*, *TECHNOLOGY* and *MEDICINE*, you notice that people who study history don't go on at length about how much they were paid for writing a life saving source code that Bill Gates was actually bowled over by), the music is still great but really, Singaporean guys don't have to ask me "So... can RJ girls actually dance?". I never thought I'd stand up for RJ, especially on the subject of dancing but... prove it I did. With further disastrous effects.

I have this funny feeling that I must have missed out on the ethical dance behaviour in clubs, but assuming there was no such thing then... all Caucasian males are not only unfortunate looking, they are sleazy bastards! I appreciate the fact that you want to get to know me better, but hell, will you take your hand off my shoulder! And running your grimy hands down ANY part of me is not winning you ANY favours!

I think I'll just stay in my room and vegetate for now... at least that will keep me away from all forms of British slimeballs.