Get right
I needed to get out tonight. What better way to celebrate the fact that you are alive by going dancing. I went out with my friends, The Black Assassin and Cuckoo, alternatively known as dancing fools extraordinaire.It’s probably a sign that you are getting older when you get back from a club and your knees start to throb. I have to give myself credit – I was wearing three inch boots, so I’m not completely over the hill. I find it frightening to think that in two years I will be a decade older than the minimum age club go-er. Eeek. When that time comes, then those 21 year olds will have been 11 when I was 21. Double eek. The lure of the club scene has changed for me; I have retired from dancing on stages/tables or in cages. I also no longer feel the need to bear strategic patches of skin, to even do my hair or makeup, or hell, to even bother to look cute. I just go to dance, and that’s still so much fun.
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