I hate this stupid god damn club.

I want to start this post with stating what most of you already know. I'm not a nice person. I'm a dick. There.

Having cleared that up: Most people want to feel like they belong somewhere. It's a basic human need. Now, some of these people choose to take matters into their own hands. So, they start clubs. Clubs have existed for a long time, and they continue to thrive. For instance, wikipedia defines clubs as being:

"Typically, a club is small enough to be wielded in one hand. Clubs that need both hands to wield are called quarterstaffs in English. Various kinds of clubs are used in martial arts and other specialized fields, including the law enforcement baton."

I'm not talking about that kind of club, but still. After having existed for a vast period of time, the concept of clubs needed to reach a higher level. The answer to this conundrum didn't take long to appear, and the worlds first "secret" clubs started forming. Let's face it, ever since you were a child, you have wanted to be a member of a secret club. It can include everything, from an "Only girls-club" to a "We who love to love Courtney Love-club" or even a "We who don't have jobs but still love to go to the club-club". You might know the last one by its other name "Beatrice Inn".

Now, it recently dawned on me that I am a member of a secret club. I know that most of you reading this, will think: "Oh, that sounds cool." Well, it's not cool, okay? I don't want to be a member of this stupid secret club. The club I'm talking about, is "Us who are Sri Lankan or remotely resemble people from Sri Lanka and therefore should bond, regardless of whether or not we have anything in common."
That fucking club.

You know the feeling of running after the bus and just making it? You get on the bus, all sweaty, but completely at ease, since you know that you've made it and can relax. Combine this with just having acquired a new album that you're dying to listen to, and you get an endlessly soothing feeling. That happened to me recently, and you'd think it was a pleasant expericence. It wasn't. You see, I had walked right into the fox hole. I slowly turned my head to the right, and there it was:

-Excuse me, where you from?
-What?(taking out my headphones right in the middle of the first song, thinking "god damn it")
-Where you from?
-Sweden.
-Riiilly? You do not look Swedish.
-Yeah, I know. I was born in Sri Lanka.
-Ahhh(THIS IS SO EXCITING, I'M GOING TO CRAP MY PANTS). Because you look like me, I am from India. You are Tamil?
-(1 out of every 6 people on the planet looks like you. That' an awful lot of socialising) No, I was born in Colombo. So, Singhalese, I guess.
-I see. Hey, did you see De Simpsons last night? Apu sure is funny, even dough we don't behave anything like dat. So what do you work with?
-I'm a photographer. You?
-I work at a corner shop.
-...(Awkward smile and a surprised face)
-So, your parents moved to Sweden?
-No, I was adopted. (Which felt like a mistake at this point.)
-Riiilly? But you go to Sri Lanka often, no?
-No, I've actually only been once.
-It is very nice. Well, I'm new here, you should come to my...
-This is actually my stop, but it was nice meeting you. Take care!
-Oh...You too, friend!

And so I got off. 11 stops too early.