Last night, I was invited to da club to enjoy the full VIP bottle service experience. Rolling six deep with a gold digger, a missed-connection, Pippi Longstocking, a purse watcher, a narcoleptic, and an adderall-popping cunt, we were stamped, wristbanded, and escorted past the velvet ropes to the special elevator that took us upstairs where we could gaze down upon the sweaty rolling stink writhing below. This elitist bullshit is so not my scene. Other than having a place to sit, I really don’t get bottle service. Open carafes of juice are a bad idea around drunk people. Is there an expectation that the six of us finish this bottle of vodka? I just drank the bottled water because everything else appeared so unsanitary. The best part of the whole evening was watching the kiddos roll their faces off down below. I saw a titty come out, and it made my night. Can we talk about the go-go dancers? Why do they all still dance like they are juggling a spaceball? 90′s nostalgia? Give me something new girls. Give me something more interesting than your lower butt cleavage. From my vantage point, with rare exception the dudes can’t dance. The repetitive pounding house beats of the well-known DJ got super fucking old super fucking quick. Really with the glow sticks? The main redeeming factor was when the group of handsome gentlemen at the table next to us mistook me as 10 years younger. I’m sure it was clubby darkness and context, but just let me savor the sad little moment, okay? Thanks.