Bloody Ibiza

So on Saturday night, at 3:30 am, while sitting on the ground of the New York Ave. metro station, I decide that I hate my friends. This is after I was forced into watching Clark Gregg's ridiculous new ego project, Choke. This is after I get confronted by a guy in Langley Park who looks strangely similar to Lil Wayne. This is after I am dragged to Ibiza, lured by the promise that,"This time will be better!" (Just for reference, last time I went to Ibiza, I was almost shot at a Wendy's.)

At the end of the night, I catalogue all the things that went badly.

One: The two girls I am with quickly pair up with the first two desperate guys they can find.

Two: An overweight Indian man crashes into me while trying to dance. Since his mass is so much greater than mine, the elastic collision causes me to fly with great velocity across the dance floor.

Three: The one guy I am with is gay and he runs off into the techno room to dance awkwardly to Paul van Dyk with his strange looking Stitch helmet.


Four: A terrifying looking tranny is behind me everytime I turn around.

Five: A crackwhore asks me for some blow.

HOWEVER, on the way in, the hottest bouncer patted me down. He was so gorgeous, tears are falling down my face as I think about him right now. And although he probably thought my erection was a massive gun, I have convinced myself that he was having as good of a time as I was. And despite all the negative aspects of this damn club, I will go back to Ibiza just to be patted down by him again.