I started to realize at about 25. It would have been earlier but I was a hardcore alcoholic so I was too drunk to notice I was having a shyt time. Having cleaned up my act, the idea of spending more than fifteen minutes in a nightclub fycking digusts me. I worked at one while doing my degree. It's a cesspit of people with literally nothing more worthwhile to do. Harsh view, but having spoken to a lot of club goers, they're fairly vacuous and uninteresting people. My view as an alcoholic (I'm reformed but you honestly never stop being an alcoholic, see Craig Ferguson discussing his drinking problems for more information) is that weekend warriors are purely in it for the escape drugs, booze and sex gives them. They get to run away from their life for the night. I enjoy my life, I don't want to run away from it.
"I just moved here from Florida."
That sentence contains at least five follow-up questions she WANTS you to ask. Where in Florida? What brought you here? How long have you been in the area? What do you miss? How does it compare to here?
She handed them to you on a silver platter. And you said, "Oh cool. I come here every week. I love this band. Ummm... pretty crowded tonight."
She smiled politely. Nodded. And never texted you back.
I was that guy for years. Talking too much. Listening too little. Panicking about my next sentence while she was literally feeding me the answers.
Then I found 22 rules that fixed the whole thing. Rule number one: shut up and listen. She'll tell you exactly what to say.