I’m Hungover

You know what’s fun? Bar-hopping and flirting with all the tall manly bouncers. You know what’s not fun? The morning after, when it feels like the chestburster from Alien lives inside you, except it’s made of puke.

I would like to kill myself just to not feel like a giant brick with a stomachache, but if I did, I don’t know how you would all survive without my beautiful posts to get you through the day. And being the wonderful girl that I am, I just couldn’t let that happen, so I guess I’ll live to write another day.

But seriously, vodka cranberries and Bahama Mamas, you are vicious and I hate you. (Until next weekend, and then we can kiss and make up.) And as for you stupid lucky non-hungover Readers: THIS.

Wow, They Really Straightened Up the Place

Last night, I went dancing at a fine establishment known as a gay bar. Now, for any girl who likes to dance and doesn’t like 400 horny guys trying to rub their dicks on her, a gay bar has always been the perfect solution (gay girls are a lot less pushy than straight dudes). You get to dress up, break it down, and have fun with your friends without having boners shoved everywhere.

Or so I thought, because apparently, some giant asshole TOLD STRAIGHT GUYS. Yeah, that’s right. Some giant douche decided to spill the beans and whisper, “Psst! Pass it on! Tons of straight girls go to gay clubs–it’s the perfect place to meet the ladies!”

I mean, clearly, if I am a straight girl at a club with rainbow flags everywhere and bouncers who look like they just walked off a gay bondage porno, I am there for a reason. And the reason is not that I love listening to gay icons blare through speakers at 5,000,000 decibels. The reason is that I want to dance all night without having to awkwardly reject people. Nothing against guys who mack on girls at clubs–I mean, it’s a club. That’s like going to an opium den and being like, “God, what a bunch of drug addicts!” But come on! Sometimes, I just want to dance like a slut for me, you know?

Instead, I was assaulted last night by 387 straight dudes asking me to dance and following me around the club and totally trying to rub their creepy penises on me. And I’m not a bitch–I didn’t say, “Fuck you,” I said, “No, but why don’t you dance with all of us?” and gestured to my lovely friends. At which point the straight-man infiltrator would then proceed to shake his head to that request and then superglue his crotch to my butt.

This happened the entire night, including guys who just kept. Coming. Back. I would let them do their exciting little boner grindy dance for about two seconds, and then very smoothy lift their hands over our head and twirl around so we were all dancing together. Which worked for a while, until the Ted lookalike (of How I Met Your Mother fame). But I’m pretty sure he was gay (maybe? Do gay guys get boners when they dance with girls, because that was not a wallet pressing on my ass), so I just went with it.

On one hand, I can’t complain. They were all actually totally decent-looking, and three of them could even be classified as something approaching “hot.” And they were all, with the exception of a seriously misguided lil’ dude, taller than me. On the other hand–listen, dolls, if I was single, I would rub against you like a kitty cat and then do something a little naughty outside the club, BUT I’M NOT. So go back to a straight bar where one of the girls you dance with might actually sleep with you (but she probably won’t).

Hip Hip Hooray…For Belly Dancing

I have taken up belly dancing.

Okay, so I am not exactly a pro, and I am also not exactly taking classes. Or learning from a professional. Or anything that that sentence made you think. By “taken up belly dancing,” I mean I watch belly dancing “how-to” videos and YouTube and learn from there. Judge me a little more; it’s not like there are dance studios out here in the Middle of Nowhere, Canadia-America-Land.

Seriously, though, it’s really fun. The one thing I can’t do yet (well, fine, one of many things) is the belly roll, though, and that’s exactly what everyone thinks of when they think of belly dancing. So I kind of feel like a fraud, saying that I belly dance but I can’t do that. But I swear you need a little bit of a tummy to do that, because part of it involves pushing out my lower abs, and when I do it doesn’t look like anything is pushed out. Not that I’m complaining (and this isn’t bragplaining, I swear, just an observation), but I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do it.

Also, it makes me feel sexy (sexier, that is, because come on, people). And I already own belly dancing bracelets (not that I know how to use them yet; they just jingle around uselessly while I do other stuff), which make me feel cool and exotic and less white.

But you know how they say there are seven kinds of intelligence, or something? Like cooking intelligence, and color-coordinating intelligence, and knowing-the-brand-of-someone’s-perfume-with-one-smell intelligence (maybe–I’m not too clear on what the seven types are)? Well, if there is a dancing one, or a “body awareness” one, I don’t have it. I’m not a klutz or anything, but I just can’t learn dance routines. It’s really hard for me and I have to practice over and over and over before I remember the steps. That’s why I love belly dancing–for some reason, it’s way easier for me than other kinds of dance. I still suck way more than the average person and have to put in way more concentration, but it’s better for me.

Yeah, this is ballet. How many belly dancing pictures is one little blogger expected to find anyway? (Ew, I just called myself a blogger, gross.)

In short: go wrap a scarf around your hips and dance ’till you have less of them, because it’s super fun.

Oh Honey Honey

There are certain things I’m just a sucker for. Like being kissed on the neck, or fuzzy dogs, or…dance movies. I love dance movies. They’re kind of like superhero movies, in that I love them all, regardless of who is in it or the specific plot. If some inspired genius makes a superhero movie where they dance…well, either Earth will implode or I’ll be one happy camper.

Secretly, he's Batman.

Today, I watched a famous dance movie that I have never seen before–the cinematic masterpiece known as Honey. I will fully admit that I loved it. Why? Obviously you skipped ahead, you naughty Internet you. I don’t care if the actors are holding the scripts in their hands and mumbling every single line in Farsi (okay, I probably would, because that just sounds confusing) as long as there is lots of dancing.

This is Jessica Alba in Honey, as (wait for it) Honey:

Usually, though, she looks more like a ghetto Bratz doll in, like, giant cargo pants and tiny tank-tops. I just had to use that picture to get the attention of the perverts, and also because when I Google “Honey” there are like three pictures that aren’t the movie poster or Pooh Bear. Anyway. That’s her, and she does a lot of dancing.

You know what else she does a lot of? This.

Not that I mean she just puts earrings in for two hours. I mean that she pretty much just walks around looking pretty and talking with a hilarious faux-ghetto accent. (There is seriously a part where she says, “Their flavor is hot!” And she is not kidding. Or talking about food.) But I think Honey was just one of those cases where I like the actress so even though her part is kind of dumb  I don’t care and I like it anyway. (Whereas Natalie Portman could play a role called Everything WildHearts Loves Ever Times a Million and I would still hate it.) Also, it’s a dance movie, so I auto-love it.

I love dancing. I am not good at it, but I love it. I’ve always wanted to take a class or something, but I’m a ridiculously slow learner and so I would have to learn with the five-year-olds and still get extra help. Whenever I do dance workout videos, they’re like, “Okay, step, step, and half-turn, do a magic-twisting-donkey-spiral, and jump, shake-shake, left hand behind head, right arm sweep up and over and switch! Now do it backwards!” And I’m just standing there working on “step.” Do normal people pick that stuff up? Long story short, I’m no Honey. But I think everyone can naturally just dance to good music, so that is the kind of dancing I do.

Also, I want to learn to pole dance.

Before you call me a slut–actually, fine, call me a slut–it’s supposed to be a great workout.

This is one of those posts that was supposed to be about only one thing, but I just keep rambling and rambling and rambling. And rambling. Did you really read all the way down here, Internet? Kudos to you, kudos.

Hold Me Closer, Terrible Dancer

I sure do love to dance.

It’s a shame I’m so terrible (not that that stops me).