subtext

On my second visit to Ruby Skye, which I called one of the clubbiest clubs in San Francisco and in which I only lasted 45 minutes the first time I went (to be fair, just after the Love Parade on the most techno-heavy weekend in the City), I was reminded of two things:
1. Regardless of how many drinks I have, I can't turn off my meticulously self-conscious analytical subtext about the music and dancing boys and dresswearing girls, and inevitably feel like what I'm doing is a form of domestic tourism and I am something like an imposter.
2. Even though I totally have a great time going out and dancing, one of my favorite activities at a very clubby dance club is to drink too much and vocalize some of my critical subtext in the form of raving lectures regarding such subjects as Gwen Stefani's image reflecting the decadent consumerism of a nation at war, and these raving lectures are not always appreciated per se by the other members of my party, who at best find them funny in that this-girl-is-crazy kind of way. (The girl in our party turns to her fiance and laughs, in good fun of course, "She's acting crazy!" which more than anything was redundantly stating the obvious, because that was the point, what else are you supposed to do to have a good time at a club when your own private narrative about the club that you can't turn off is so funny?)
She's a very sweet girl, and I'm past expecting most people to relate to me for being a nerd.
What's great is the girl adjacent to me at work likes me precisely because I'm such a nerd, and she thinks I'm just like her except for the fact that I'm a total doormat and she's not, so she's made it a point to teach me the ways of not being a pushover and gently trying to get what I want, which I tell her is probably impossible because of my pathological running self-conscious commentary, but I suppose is worth a shot.

I'm worried that I'm burning out in some way, from working too much too tediously at work during a crazy transitional period of undefined duration.
I crashed out halfway through National Novel Writing Month with about half a novel and the utter inability to write a single word without feeling that it is tedious, redundant, self-indulgent crap. And on Sunday, feeling like getting outdoors but not being able to get ahold of my usual hang-out buddies (on ski trips, moving, with misplaced cell phones out of town), I took a solo trip to some parks I usually have a great time at alone, but somehow it just felt like work to be out there in 40-degree weather by myself. Being as busy as I have been, I can't get over feeling guilty for spending my free time doing something not either productive or highly pleasurable, and I obviously need to get over it the old-fashioned way, by becoming absorbed with some pageturner trash novel in hardcover and blogging a lot until I can write again, at which point I can regularly scold myself for not spending my free time writing brilliant fiction while I'm not at work.