I just got home, probably smells like cheap beer and regret. My coworkers are still out there, probably doing coke in some shithole club, and I’m here, staring at my chipped paint and the stack of bridge books I’ve got piled next to my bed. It’s a goddamn joke, isn’t it? Being nineteen and spending your Saturday night, every fucking Saturday night, getting your ass handed to you by eighty-year-olds at the community center. Like, what the hell is wrong with me? My foreman, Mike, was asking me again today why I don’t ever come out. “Hey, kid, another quiet one this weekend?” he asked, grinning like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. And I just shrugged, gave him some bullshit about being tired from the week, which isn’t even a lie, construction kicks your ass. But the truth is, I just… can’t. The noise, the lights, the endless small talk about nothing – it just grates on me. I’d rather be sitting across from Agnes, who’s ninety-two and still plays a mean no-trump, than try to shout over some shitty club music about how many hours I pulled this week, or how much I hate my apartment, or how little I actually make. It’s not like I don’t want to connect with people my own age, I guess. I just don't know *how*. My coworkers, they talk about cars and girls and getting wasted, and I just… don’t have much to add. When I try to talk about something else, like, I don't know, the strategy of a particular finess or the elegance of a well-executed slam bid, they just stare at me blankly. It’s like we’re speaking different languages. And then there's the judgment, the sneers. "You play *bridge*? Seriously?" Yeah, seriously, asshole. It's actually a hell of a lot more challenging than chugging Coors Light and trying to hook up with someone you’ll regret in the morning. The worst part is, sometimes I feel a flash of actual envy when they’re talking about their wild nights. Like, maybe I’m missing something, some essential part of being nineteen. Maybe I *should* want to be out there, getting stupid drunk, making bad decisions. But then I remember the headache, the empty feeling, the hours wasted. And the thought of another round of "What's wrong with you?" from Mike, or another "You're such a grandma, man," just makes me want to scream. I’m just so… tired of feeling like I’m constantly disappointing everyone, even myself, for just wanting a little peace and a good game. What the fuck is so wrong with that?