I'm up late drinking Jameson's. The Ellen DeGeneres HBO comedy special is on in the background. Fuck that. I can't pay attention. Now it's Kids in the Hall on Comedy Central. I can't sleep. I took an antihistamine, and I can't fucking sleep. Also I was up pretty late last night so my sleep schedule is off.

See, I'm saving most of my Sunday stories for my "Dispatch" column this week on Ironminds, but I can tell you that I went on a techno boat trip, I imbibed quite a bit, and I didn't get home till 5 in the morning.

Also:

I had a boy rub my hand. I didn't need my hand rubbed, didn't want my hand rubbed, but nonetheless, hand rubbing occurred. The thing is, I love the club kids, I do. But I can't help but define them by their substance abuse. At least theirs makes them happy.

I've hung out with so many different kinds of people in my life, and when I think of them, I ultimately think of their substances, and their results. A brief history:

High School
Substance: Beer, served cheap and in aluminum cans. Sometimes alcohol.
Result: Silliness. Occasional puking. Regrettable makeout sessions. The rare DUIs.

College
Substance: Beer, served from a keg in a plastic cup. More alcohol, like stupid drinks made with grain. Some pot.
Result: Stupidity. Lots of puking. Some violence. Regrettable sex. The rare date rape.

England
Substance: Good pints. Hash. Speed.
Result: Insanity. One of the best times of my life. Also, the worst.

Florida
Substance: Bottles of Bud. Pot.
Result: It was Florida. No one fucking moved there, it was too hot.

Washington, DC
Substance: Lots of alcohol.
Result: Some violence. Witticism that grew weary after 3AM. I knew some really sad people there.

Seattle
Substance: Pot. Shrooms. Acid. Meth. Coffee. Beer.
Result: Slacker-like behavior. Great visions that were ultimately, just that: visions, not actions. Lots of pretty colors. Pleasant, but passive.

New York City
Substance: Mostly Ecstasy and alcohol. Also: Speed. Coke. Pot.
Result: Touching. Hugging. Feeling. Talking. Sleeplessness.

Yea, the touching was in full effect last night, and I was not in the mood to be touched. When people around you have swallowed two and a half hits of ecstasy and you haven't, it can get tired fast, especially around 3 in the morning. Just. Can't. Be. There. For. You.

And then I met this boy, this popular DJ who throws parties at cool clubs (From what I've heard. Wouldn't know. Haven't been there.), works in fashion, blah blah fucking blah, and his attempts to impress fell on deaf ears, because (1) I don't like techno and (2) I don't like fashion. I like rock and overalls (which I am wearing right now.) And you know what happens when you tell a popular DJ who works for a cool clothing line that you don't know what he's talking about and you really just like rock? Apparently, they want to rub your hand.

Ah, feel the love.

Dunno. It was strange. I've been touched and rubbed by friends in clubs before, but never by a complete stranger, and never quite so purposefully. I was not feeling it. I liked the talking part, though. I almost always like the talking part, just because I think people are interesting. He was smart. He was funny. But he was pressing his fucking thumb into my hand.

I sat there, numb. I am respectful of people who are tripping, always have been. I would hate it if someone fucked with me when I was fucked up. But I wanted him to stop it. I did not want to be touched. I let him do it for a few minutes. He wasn't groping or grabbing or anything like that, but I honestly think he was trying to communicate something sexual to my hand. Better that way, I guess, because it's much, much easier to excuse yourself to the bathroom after a while, which is what I did.

Sigh. I can't wait till I'm 30 and I don't live in New York and none of my peers do drugs anymore.

I'm glad I went out, though. It's far too easy for me to stay home these days.

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