Hold your wrist out limply as though you’re waiting to give the Wristband Jockey a dead fish handshake, but really you’re just zapped of your will to live after that tedious exchange. She kisses your skin with a wet stamp that leaves behind thick black ink depicting a crescent moon. You get a green wristband.
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You may know that there are two types of women in the world: the dancers and the not-dancers, and you are grateful to be in the subset of women that is obviously the better one. Thank god for this, you think to yourself; what a drag it’d be to be one of those women. Those women are sitting on a bench close to the band, hefty mixed drinks in their hands and hazy, almost drunk looks on their faces.