Saturday night was a first for me: I went to a club. Now, I know what you're all thinking: "Nate, you seem like such a hip, club-type person! How have you not gone to clubs before?". Well, first of all, I'm not such a hip-o (hippo?) after all, and second, your use of the word "club-type" exposes you as a companion social pariah.
The club was Clybesdoles, or Clydoray, or something, and I went with a few of my cool friends and (luckily) another guy who shares my aversion to exactly everything about clubs. In case you didn't know, a club is a series of dimly lit rooms, filled with different proportions of drinking and loud obnoxious music. There is also a thing called "dancing", which means hopping about in a confined space while your ears bleed. The high point of the night, for me, was when I was half-dared to talk to a random girl, who informed me that her voice had gone out and promptly left. I hope I didn't scare her away, but I think I did. I was just trying to find someone to talk to, but apparently that isn't a thing at clubs.
I think I have a pretty good idea of how to have a good time. I read, I talk to and play games with my friends, I drink copious amounts of tea. But I don't like clubs. That is what I learned last Saturday night. Call me homeschooled.