The Ditched Life. Well, almost...

For someone who used to bar-hop during those wretched years spent in KL, returning to KK was a far cry from my former life. While I was in KL, guzzling down alcoholic drinks during weekdays pretty much summed it up. The normal practice would be partying from the early evening and staggered back home the next day after. The security people down my apartment complex had gotten used to our ‘itineraries’.  Having our carpark space next to their security post was, as far as the tenant’s information goes, of course more than sufficient.

After returning to Sabah for good, that was middle of 2010, I finally resolved myself as a born again novice when it comes to clubbing scene.  Gone were the days of staggering home with mussed up hair and make-up, walking barefoot with shoes toed off, lying in abandoned inside the car and no more binge-drinking  taking precedent to a much abused whole year round body.  No more passing out hugging the toilet bowl. If you ask me now whether I’d still be able to withstand the onslaught of alcohol in my system,  I seriously doubt it. To be exact, I’ve been sober for nearly two and a half years now.  Well, to begin with, I’m not an alcoholic junkie. I drank a lot, but luckily I wasn’t hooked on it 24/7. I didn’t suffer from withdrawal syndrome and I am perfectly calm and nonchalant when I walk by the wine corner at supermarkets. I do enjoy wine. I drink it while at home or picnics or during family gatherings.  I was a binge-drinker. That much I admit.

In all fairness, nightlife in KK is not one we can call boring.  In the city centre, there are a number of watering holes to sink yourself into, to spend a chunk of your monthly wages off.  To call forth your Twitter/Facebook friends for the catching-up and socializing in the flesh.  I remember one time back in late 2010. After attending an event at Le Meridien Hotel, my friends practically frog-marched me to BED, where people from every walk of life in KK congregate.  At a relatively cheap cover charge, anyone can squeeze themselves in. But of course, drinks prices in this establishment are not cheap!  One thing for sure, this club is always jam packed, especially during weekends.  The locals, the tourist, the immigrants, the hookers – all converged into one.  From the moment I stepped inside, the familiar tobacco fumes practically gave me cardiac arrest. Jostling with sweaty bodies, toes got stepped on, boobs getting grazed with various peoples’ anatomies (and some louts copping a feel at my bottoms) while on stage, some mad Filipino band shrieking and gyrating in skimpy attires over the too loud music you could hardly hear the vocals and there I was, feeling out of place and too old compared with the rest. I had the sensation of being trapped in the tunnel of mayhem.

Half an hour inside, my tops got sloshed with icy drink by an overly hyped guy, who was dancing and totting his glass drink high up his head (If appeared like a man gotten his nuts kicked all the way to Timbuktu is what we can call dancing at all) and a guy next to our table kept on coming to ours with his ‘let’s clink our glasses together’ phrases.  The other girls were beginning to turn the other cheeks and proceeded to dance with no care and I was left dealing with the bore.  I said: excuse me but please, enough with your ‘aramai ti’ cheers.  Leave us alone, we’re not interested.  Red faced, he never attempted to approach us again. I looked at the bar top counter located in the center of the cavernous room  and several girls were trying to drug the crowd to oblivion with their super-Shakira moves.  On a closer inspection, it appeared that one of them was a tranny  in stripper’s heels, denim mini skirt and leopard print bra. While that irritating Sean Kingston’s  Fire Burning lyrics was blasting about calling 911 because Shawty (whatever and whoever that is) is burning, a young girl crouched on the bar top counter, skinny thighs splayed apart,  showing her not so flattering panties while a man below held up a burning ciggy lighter up her gyrating crotch, the crowds grew wild. It safe to say that that tranny in leopard print bra was ousted! 

In the remaining hours of the night, I tried to blend in. My attempts on reviving my ‘party people coolness' were unsuccessful. In the end, my bottoms remain glued on the stool and I was left looking at the people who used to be the shadow of my former self. These days, I prefer to kick back and relax with friends in laid back bar/lounge, preferably with some Irish bubbly or cocktails and have proper conversations without shouting and breaking my eardrums. A simple teh tarik session with friends is a luxury that I never want to forgo. 

And that, have probably made me a boring woman? I draw the line of being a recluse, by the way.