Dear Long Nights And Going Out, We Are Officially Over

Dear long nights and irrationally expensive tabs,

“If you love somebody, let them go.”

It’s not you, it’s me. I love my couch too much. I love the way my Blu-ray sparkles in the living room light. I love how I have my very own food court just feet away. Is it heaven? No, it’s my house. So, yes, yes it is.

I apologize if this has caught you off guard, if this appears to be a shock, I know we have had a solid relationship over the years – that one time after prom, those moments in college, the times when I’ve attempted to be social as an adult. Really, you’ve been great. More than great, in fact. You’ve taught me how to stay calm in tense situations. You’ve taught me how to conquer awkward small talk. You’ve taught me how to deal with inconsiderate houseguests. You’ve taught me that it is possible to spend that much money on Taco Bell. But I feel as if we’re growing apart, I feel as if you’re not invested in our relationship – that you’re not meeting me half way.

I don’t want to make this a big deal…On a scale of sleeping through an alarm to the possibility of Donald Trump being president, it’s probably a ‘the waiter got my order wrong at a restaurant’ type of thing. I just feel like honesty is the best way to go. So, here it is. My issue starts even before “going out.” Pregaming is stressful (but necessary). I have to make a playlist? Then get judged on every song? No thanks. Oh, you’re bringing a +1? This isn’t an effing wedding. I don’t want to meet any new people.

Fast forward…looks like the pregame is over, please leave everything for me to clean up in the morning, I love that and it gives my life meaning! Now go have fun while I stay and lock up. And there’s more. Then the night actually begins. OK not so fast – one of your friends has to stay back with your other friend who is crying for some stupid reason.

Continuing on.

I’m sick of the long lines. I mean, what the f*ck? I don’t want to feel like I’m at Disney World every time I want to buy a drink. Also, what’s up with making me run into people from my past who I clearly don’t want to see? It’s like A Christmas Carol but with my exes. I HATE that. I mean, I reallllyy hate that.

And the small talk? God-awful. How can I concentrate on singing along to Ed Sheeran when I have to pretend like I care about what others are saying? What twisted soul came up with the idea of a bar anyways? “Do you like strangers? Do you like standing awkwardly close to those strangers? And also paying money for things? And spending half the night deciding how to split the cab fare? Great! You’re going to love it here.”

That’s why I found a new, cool, progressive bar. It’s called my house. Everything is free, you are encouraged to wear sweatpants, only people I like are allowed in, there are unlimited movies, there’s a dog somewhere, you won’t lose your wallet every. frickin. night, and there are (literally) tubs of ice cream. Did I mention there is a cute dog that runs around? Oh, and beds are within walking distance, so you can get your steps in. Did I just change the party scene forever? You’re welcome.

What I’m trying to say is that there’s still hope for us, but if you want to make this work I’m going to need to see some effort. The least you could do is play some good music, not that top 40 B.S. Regardless of what happens we should totally stay friends, though. Ya know?

With sincerity (and in sweatpants),

Someone who is over “it”