When you find yourself living in Gainesville during the summer months, acquiring new friends to band together with is key to survival. There are plenty of places to do this: farmers markets, school clubs, the Taco Bell in the Reitz Union and so on.
Since I recently reached the legal age in which life becomes worth living, 21, I decided to search the bars of this fair town for new friends to exploit—uh, I mean, hang out with.
Now readers, full disclosure: I am no stranger to bars. Besides being an exceedingly popular writer for this publication, I also moonlight as a mediocre (at best) stand-up comedian, plying my trade in bars since my freshman year. It was incredibly nerve-racking being underage and sober in a bar. Most of my time was spent sitting in the corner looking at my phone like I had just received a gravely important text message (really, it was a gravely important game of Brick Breaker).
I’ve had three years to get over the social anxiety that comes with being in a bar with a bunch of drunks, and 21 years to get over the anxiety that comes with living in a house with a bunch of drunks (Hi, Mom! Happy Birthday, Dad!), so it’s no surprise that when I confidently stride into a bar nowadays, I quickly crumble and cower in the corner, going back to work on my high score.
However, as my stand-up act becomes more polished (read: more fart jokes), I’ve found something amazing happens. When I do well, people come talk to me. One girl actually asked me if I was single, then if I would take her number (have you ever been taking a test that seemed too easy, and all of a sudden start thinking that you might be actually wrong about everything?).
Someone else bought me a drink. I began to realize that people might be attracted to success. However, even though others felt the need to break the ice for my highly successful self, I still manage to keep things very frosty. One such exchange:
Girl: “Hi, you were very funny!”
Me: “Yes, I was. I also write a column for the Avenue.”
Girl: “Really? Wow. Maybe you’d like to write a column about me.”
Me: “I guess.”
Basically, I’m nearly hopeless. For some reason bars, the easiest places in the world to meet people, make me more antisocial than that kid who never left his dorm room (me).
But there is a glimmer of hope: I still have that girl’s number, readers, and we’ve been texting each other constantly. I’ll soon work up the courage to actually send her words, instead of every single emoticon I can think of. Maybe a fart joke—those seem to work.
