Stage Rage is not the Rage
A friend once said to me, “why do good nights have to end?”
How was I ever meant to respond to that? It was indeed time for us to leave the beer pong, the stocked up fridge, the short line for semi-clean bathrooms. Pres was at an end, and it was time to make the weekly (god forbid daily) commute to Stages AKA where all good nights go to die.
Seriously, why do we do it to ourselves? Everyone knows that the pre-party shenanigans are always at least ten times better than Stages. We leave, just to get stuck in a line that sobers you up more than 3am poutine. You finally get in but the worst is yet to come. Because you are now sufficiently sober, you see Stages for what it really is. A cess pool.
You get a couple of reasonably priced mixed drinks, just to have dickhead “accidently” bump into you, causing you to spill them and giving him the opportunity to “buy you a drink”. After you recover from this, you stop for a minute to scope out the dancefloor. Same old story. There’s a group of girls dancing with their friends, clearly not interested in the boys slowly trying to encroach on the circle. Over on the other side of the dance floor are the people eating each other’s faces off, grinding, maybe doing something else you’d rather not think about (seriously why don’t you just cut to the chase and go home already).
You look up to see animals, oh wait they are actually human, swinging from the rails, another person is running across tables… Frustrating the few people trying to take a sneaky time out. You go to the bathroom, just for the stench of vomit to waft towards you, a previous occupant clearly white-girl-wasted and probably should have gone straight home from pres. To make matters worse, no toilet paper. You can hear a drunk girl crying to her friend about nothing in particular, just about how this one time she waved to someone and they didn’t wave back.
Now you really are starting to question your decisions, more so then that time you thought the milk would be ok three days past the expiry date.
Yet we do it every week. Why? No-one really knows. Sure it’s 2015, but the time for house parties that never end is now.