Once you’re twenty-five, you’ve done the blaring, sticky-with-shame dance bars enough and you’re over it. You still dig music, but you also like being able to banter without having to scream like it’s Thanksgiving and you’re talking to your decrepit, senile relatives.
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It’s been a stressful week. You have one thought on your mind—just dance, gonna be okay! You traipse through a repulsive mess of sweaty bodies. You ignore the girl being penetrated through her jeans by the dude she just met who is now driving his pelvis full force into her ass while she clings tightly to the stage… Okay, let’s be realistic, no one ignores that.