Foundation Year Dance Party

 First off - this post may contain too-much-information. If you prefer to continue viewing me as the nice, sweet, shy (?), bookish girl you know, I advise you to stop reading this now.

 If you're mentally scarred for life after this post, don't effing blame me.

"Come to the dance party?" 

"Please come. Pleaaaaaaaaase."

"Why won't you come, damn it?' 

"Just go to the dance party! It'll be fun!"

I had no idea how many times phrases like these were repeated to me. First, it was once a week - then as the date approached, it became once a day, then twice a day. It was infuriating as it was distressing, and I was close to being unhinged. 

It wasn't that I was being unsporting. In fact, when news that the dance party was being hosted, I had been the one who whooped and screamed for joy.

But then I lost my enthusiasm. It just happened, and there wasn't much left to say. I wasn't keen, and that was it - or so I thought. 

"Fine," I sighed. "I'll go."

During the next few days, girls patted my hair and touched my face - all eager to aid me in what I was the worst at, which was dressing up.

Since I had so abruptly decided to go, preparation was a painful process. The fact that I had shifted not too long ago did nothing to soothe the discomfort either - it just made it worse. I tagged along with several classmates around Dunedin for dresses, wincing when the most expensive dresses came up to $500. I refused to splurge on a three hour event, and doling out the dough on a dress just didn't seem worth it to me. Finally, though, after more searching, I managed to find a relatively classy dress under $100. It was about the cheapest I could get, and I swore never to go shopping for another dress for the year again. And then there were the shoes - these weren't that difficult, for I had scouted out a pair of three-four inched beauties a month ago during the winter break. I had to get more stockings for myself, though, as I actually managed to rip a pair while I was trying them on. Time to lose some weight...maybe.

When the big day finally came, I was nervous, worried and excited all at the same time. Lily happily did my face while I suffered and blinked throughout the torturous process of applying eyeliner, foundation and mascara - then after that, I went over to Marilyn's. 

If there was one thing I have learned, it would be to never underestimate Brazilian females when it came to dressing up.

Never. Underestimate. Them.

Ever.

The entire night passed by in a blur. Less people turned out than we hoped, but the DJ was a Singaporean from my class who was blasting out some pretty decent beats. We hit the dance floor straightaway, and that was how the wildness began. I used my classmate's passport to get a beer without even checking the label, but it was beer and oh it tasted really good. From then things became a little blurry - I remembered chucking my prized heels away because they were too much of a nuisance during the dancing. Fist-pumping the air while waltzing around in four-inched heels just wasn't entirely feasible, so...

And that was when the guys came. 

I danced with a guy whom my classmates and I have dubbed as "the German guy". He was incredibly smart (either that or he was probably just being an assertive dick), and I didn't expect to be able to come into such close proximity with him. We clung to each other with glow sticks and noisy music, swaying around with our arms around each other's neck/back. My classmates were smirking, and I probably was as well. At the end of the dance, this guy gave me his glow stick and went off for a drink.

Then there was the guy from Saudi Arabia. He was wild - just so wild. Just thinking about it now makes me realize how un-Anne I was on that night, though CHS-ians who have seen me drunk would probably beg to differ. There was a lot of dirty-dancing - and if I were to do some comparing, it would probably be like a raw, untrained version of a hyped up American music video - and by that, everything would be included - including groping, grinding and inappropriate fondling. 

I was really stupid about the whole thing, really. He told me he just lived upstairs, and asked whether I would like to come up for a drink. Well, the dance floor was crowded, stifling, stuffy and I was sweating - so I said, "Sure. A drink sounds good."

I had no idea what that drink was. He poured and mixed something I couldn't recognize into the cup and said, "This shit's so good, you have to try it." 

And so I did.

Now that I look back, agreeing to that was incredibly stupid. I was just lucky that nothing worse happened after that, and that I still miraculously managed to keep a level-headed opinion of things. The alcohol in the drink was strong - I knew it was, for after that when he insisted on me drinking more I refused and said, "If you give me anymore, I'll throw up." I had been serious that time, and I knew it. He merely shrugged, and we continued dancing. 

My classmates were giving me the thumbs up. After that when I asked them about my dancing, they would all nod, grin and say it was "more than just hip-grinding, guuuurl, you were totally dishing everythin' out on that dance floor. We never seen that side of you before, Li Anne. 'S cool."

"What's your name?" he asked, breathing into my ear and smelling incredibly like tobacco and alcohol.

I told him, and asked for his name in return. He spelled them out for me, tracing alphabets onto my back. 

(I still remember his name up until today, which is amazing considering the fact that I was tipsy during that time.)

"Wallah, you are beautiful."

"Wallah?" I asked, feeling confused.

"I swear to God, you are beautiful."

...Oh.

"What do you want to be in the future? I'm thinking of becoming...a  politician," he confessed.

I laughed. "I'm...going to become...the world's writer and write a bestseller."

"Really? Remember then," he whispered, "That if you ever write something wonderful next time, that once upon a time - a long, long time ago - you once danced with me. Me."  

He was everywhere, goddammit. Just everywhere, and I didn't know how to stop it. The sane part of me was saying, "Okay, Anne, enough. Stop," while the wild part of myself was screaming, "FUCK YEAH. ROCK ON, BITCH."

But the atmosphere was just so infectious that I found myself carrying on. When I paused for a break and clutched my aching head in my hands, Tim had sympathetically given me a head massage and asked repeatedly whether I was okay or not.

I must have seemed so pathetic. I mean, I think I even asked him which shoes were for my feet. 

When I finally returned home, I had no idea what was going on. I remember collapsing onto the bed without a shower, tossing and turning with frustration and happiness. It was something like my first real clubbing night, and it was abso-fucking-lutely exhilarating.

And I'm sorry for such a douche-y post. 

I hope some of you actually get a laugh out of this! (: