Just check out my lycra pants

My school dance is drawing in. I guess its not just a dance, a dance is casual, easy going and shit music. The only thing that will be in this so called "dance" is the latter. That, I'm counting on.

So I finally gave in. After a worthy fight, shouts, pleas, begging on knees, I am going to my school formal. It slightly sickens me, but I'm leaving, so its kind of my last thing as a friend. Can I say that? Could I say this is a service to my friends? Is that a worthy excuse? No, there are no excuses, I have given in, surrendered. At this point, I would be called French.

Unfortunately, above all things I could possibly be worried about, I am worried about the dancing. This, as I have stated before, is because I cannot dance. After ten years of formal dance lessons, I possess no skills, no grace (I fell up stairs last week. That should not even be possible.) and no apparent ability in moving "ma body". I have attempted to practice dancing naturally. I stand in front of a mirror, click my fingers, sway and sort of stamp, whilst attempting the "provocative" hair flick. I look stupid, I feel stupid and the only thing I would be "provocative" to is a wilderbeast, and even then I'd be second pick. So thats not working.



Hoping that with the good, electro tinted music (I can't take full electro and I know that my dance will be chocked/tainted/choked with it, so I better slowly ease myself into it) of Ladyhawke (tis "Dusk till Dawn", shes one of those people who were born cool) the mood might take me and I would be the next John Travolta circa Saturday Night Fever. Whilst strutting my so called "stuff" I noticed that through a gap in the window, my neighbor was watching me. I don't think she was impressed as I hoped for. Soon things will be scrawled over my mailbox, "you suck, you ginge, my grandmudda dance better dan you". Maybe not with the bad spelling/grammar, but I am compensating for gangsta speech. So then I'll reply with "your mum" in yellow spray paint across her car, because, in todays world, theres no need for witty repertoire, "your mum" seems to solve everything.

I think I'll just stand there and sway, pretending that I'm cool, indie, apathetic person, not that I can't dance for anything. Maybe, like some sort of cliche music based 80s movie, the music will take me. I'll start convulsing, unable to control myself, moving amazingly, hitting the beats, twisting, wiggling, being utter ace. A crowd will form around me, cheering, clapping, mouths on the floor. Then before I leave, everyone will be able to say my name and say my name with pride, "shes the chick who can mooooove, shes got da groove" before carrying me out on their shoulders.

That won't happen. Maybe I could pay someone to do it.