I Hate Dancing
I am a grown woman. When it comes to things I’ve tried, I know what I like and I know what I don’t like.
I don’t like going out dancing.
I’ve tried it many times and I just don’t like it. There’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it. And I’m fine with that. Maybe it makes me look like some kind of no-fun-stick-up-my-ass-asshole, but, frankly, I don’t give a shit if that’s what you think of me.
And I’m also not buying the “Oh, but you have to experience the (insert foreign city) nightlife!” One: I bet it’s not much different than what I’ve seen before. Two: if it is different it’s probably because it’s even more people and more dancing than what I’ve seen before. More is not better.
For the rest of my life, when someone suggests that I go out dancing my response will be as follows:
“Sure. But tomorrow night you have to come to my apartment for an absolute minimum of three hours. I’ll play some weird drone music, maybe some psych, as loud as I can. I will appear to be having the best time of my life and will frequently disappear for hours at a time. I probably won’t talk to you, but if I do, I’ll scream unintelligible words right in your ear. I’ll have a variety of drinks. For $2 you can have something terrible. For something that tastes good, you’ll owe me $7 per. If you’re lucky I will either spill a drink or puke on you. It goes without saying that my bathroom will be out of order.”
