Just a quick disclaimer that this is definitely in no way based on any personal, ego-related trauma or inner wound from a recent real event. I simply just wish to provide some hypothetical guidance to those who may have gone through this randomly-imagined humiliating situation. Not that I know what this must feel like or anything, but when a French bald 6,4ft man with the arms the size of two bouncy castles looks you up and down and in front of about 500 people tells you that you are an underserving speck of insignificant scum who should never leave their house again and should never have left in the first place (not in so many words maybe, but a look can convey potent sentiments, trust) it must not be the crème de la crèmiest feeling on planet Earth. (I can only imagine of course). 

So, here is the purely hypothetical situation at hand: It’s Halloween. You’ve queued for the club for an hour and a half, and you are getting your ticket ready while your friends in front of you go in. It takes about half a second longer for you to yank that little unrelenting piece of paper out of your unnecessarily packed wallet, but finally there it is. You hand it over, having made the bouncer wait half a second longer. He, him, the man, the total stranger in front of you gives you a look (the look, communicative of potent sentiments previously detailed), shakes his brick head in quasi-imperceptible movement and that’s that. Finito. Your fate has been decided. You are not going to give the crying drunk girl in the toilet fake consoling compliments. It’s ciao ciao babycakes. And you have only two choices here: to start sobbing uncontrollably like an 8-year-old whose Nintendo has been confiscated for the evening, or to simply stoically accept that 3 hours of your time and 3 ounces of your nearly-finished foundation and now-substanceless Chloe perfume (& 3 stomach-defeating vodka shots) were all in vain. Pour rien. But can you imagine sobbing uncontrollably like a Ninento-ridden child in front of 500 people? Christ. Could never be me…

However, I urge you to not be superficial in taking the rejection at face value. Just like the boy in school who used to kick you in the shins definitely had a life-consuming crush on you, the droid-faced bouncer standing in the way of you and your alcoholic sweaty mosh pit-induced dreams must be hiding a secret form of infatuation. Hear me out. Your figure is looking the best it ever has and your dress is hugging it like they’re two reunited BFFs who have not seen each other in over four years. Your eyes are so foxy and lifted that aliens would be jealous and your lips are a shinier than the Eiffel tower in the rain. So, you have definitely not been rejected on the basis of your appearance. And as much as I do think that sometimes one can engage in some form of telepathic communication (like on the metro, when you are connected to a stranger through mutual identification of a sudden disagreeable stench permeating from the man that just walked in) there is no way you and robot-faced bouncer man have communicated mentally on any level. So, this is clearly very much a him problem. 

Here are the only four possible explanations for the rejection:

  1. 1. (The obvious one) He has a sudden love-at-first-sight crush: You are his exact type. Everything he’s ever wanted. So you’re distracting him and he already needed the toilet but now because of you he’s literally about to wet himself. 
  2. 2. He is colour blind: This would make a lot of sense. Your blue Brats Doll Halloween wig isn’t resonating as to him it is red, and because your dress is pink he does not enjoy the pink and red outfit clash (although, if he were to get up to scratch with Vogue’s latest he’d know red and pink are a deeply sophisticated mix). Just a pearls before swine situation.
  3. 3. You look like his ex-girlfriend: Not much to say here. His out-of-his-league hot girlfriend cheated on him with his best friend and that is not your fault. Nor is the resultant blend of your parent’s chromosomes.  
  4. 4. He is gay: Just like Leo in the year above was unfortunately definitely gay because he didn’t get with you at Ella’s house party, similar case here. And as much as you may have sexuality-transcending sex-appeal, it can’t work on everyone.

Listen, I know it’s gutting. Especially when you’ve just listened to a 50-minute positivity podcast about not comparing yourself to others and being happy in your own skin. A bit difficult to trust you though, Ms Positivity Adrienne, after watching all your fellow Brats Dolls strut towards their sweaty mosh pit dreams and being denied the same strut. Unfortunately, you cannot control what human (pri*k) was plopped in front of you at that very moment. You can, however, control whether or not you will choose to emit the mousy squeaky voice of despair (which exists somewhere within us all, alongside the Karen). And as much as I understand (and validate) the urge to let him know you hope he gets a papercut in between his fingers and a truck doesn’t fully run him over but just his toes, we must supress our inner squeaky Ninento-ridden voice. Especially when there are 500-odd spectators. 

All jokes aside, it was disgusting to leave a drunken girl in a skimpy outfit outside on her own and let all of her friends in. I’d go as far as to say slightly sadistic. A perverse power trip. But here are 2 reasons I thank him:

  1. 1. Just like I learnt from my awful ex, and would actually relive that relationship just for the colossal subsequent glow-up that ensued, I thank Bouncer for prompting an imminent new one. (Still waiting).
  • 2. I will never have a boring shower again. (They were getting quite mundane). Now each one is a new exhilarating opportunity to perform an (increasingly aggressive and improving) monologue. Funny how uncanny the resemblance between a human and a motionless shower tap can be. 

But ultimately, I wouldn’t stress too much because the French word for bouncer is “videur”, which means “emptier”, so it is literally his job title to extract the gems from the garbage. You are the gems.


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