The Reviews Are In For My Sick Dance Moves
What a horrible day to have eyes
“Do you think he lost a bet?” — the group of friends pointing and laughing.
“You need to move your hips.” — my oldest buddy, contorting my body like a marionette.
“That’s why I stick to the corner.” — the wallflower dragged to the bar by his roommate.
“Do I look as bad as him? Is that even possible?” — the guy with two left feet.
“Why does he keep staring over at us? He better not like me.” — my crush.
“That guy’s going to stay a virgin forever.” — my crush’s crush.
“Like a grand mal seizure.” — the first year medical student, failing to impress anyone.
“What am I doing with my arms?” — myself, two or three beers in, after catching my reflection off the window.
“If I tell him he’s a good dancer, maybe he’ll keep embarrassing himself in front of his friends.” — my jerk of a brother.
“Why does he keep nodding his head? Is someone asking him if he looks deranged?” — my crush.
“He’s not exactly good at this.” — Captain Obvious.
“He moves like a wacky inflatable tube man hit by a stun gun.” — the guy reeking of pot.
“Just follow my lead.” —my friend who can dance.
“He better back up or he’ll catch an elbow.” — the breakdancing crew forming a circle around me.
“Is he really dancing in front of everyone? What is he doing now? Is that some attempt at a cartwheel?” — the horrified onlookers.
“Everyone is staring and laughing. I killed it!” — myself, five beers in, plus a shot or four of tequila.
“He ruined the vibe. Maybe we should call it a night.” — the dance crew, dissipating.
“You, my friend, are a legend.” — the bartender, snatching a twenty dollar bill and “forgetting” my change.
“Maybe if I dance next to him, I won’t look so bad.” — the kid at the bar for the first time.
“Forget this plan, he smells.” — the same kid.
“I wonder if I can get him to go on stage in front of everyone.” — my jerk of a brother.
“Oh my God, he’s actually doing it. I can’t watch.” —my brother, happily watching.
“This next song goes out to the weirdo on stage making questionable life decisions.” — the DJ with the crusty mohawk.
“The stage is for hot girls and the people they want to sleep with.” — the angry bouncer, yanking me to the floor.
“Serves his ugly ass right.” — the babes staring down from their pedestal.
“He looks like he’s going to piss himself, finally some fluidity.” — the guy reeking of pot.
“Is he swaying off beat or nodding out?” — the guy at the next urinal.
“He’s coming back from the bathroom. Duck so he doesn’t see us.” — my oldest friend.
“How does he keep finding us? We’re never going to get laid.” — my friend who can dance.
“Let’s take a video so we always remember this night.” — my jerk of a brother.
“Someone get that guy an anti-emetic…oops, too late.” — the medical student.
“With that expulsion of body fluids, he expressed what we’re all thinking.” — the guy reeking of pot.
“If there’s a single drop of puke on my heels, I’ll jam them down his throat.” — my crush, sounding hotter than ever.
“Somehow he smells better than before.” — the kid at the bar for the first time.
“Okay pal, you’re out of here.” — the bouncer.
“I am a dancing machine!” — myself, eleven or fourteen drinks in, shortly before the night cuts to black.
