hang the dj

you wait three and a half weeks to turn into a dancing machine.
it's your birthday weekend and a night of britpop dancing is definitely in order.
so you roll out to the echo with a few friends in hopes of reliving some blissful past.
you arrive and there's some shit band playing their shit music at painful decibels.
and nowhere on any site is this information shared.
so you wait out back, killing time with a bad drink and a bad pompidour to mock.
and finally the shit band have left the stage.
so you squeeze onto the dance floor and prepare your body for some good abuse.
and you barely move.
and you're hating the music.
and you're not sure what to do because you're torn between wanting to move and wanting to leave.
but you decide to stay and make the best of it.
and the dj can't string two songs together in a pleasing fashion.
and you're beginning to resent the place.
so you go back outside to reminisce about better times.
but you really want to dance.
and it's one hour to closing time.
so you suck it up and dance.
but this time they're spinning your songs.
and this time you're spinning to songs.
and one after another they're trying to make it up to you.
so you dance hard in appreciation.
you dance hard to soaking.
and you're singing along while you go into a crazed frenzy of rhythmic movement.
you think, thank god.
but the release is last minute.
and you leave unsatisfied.
so you vow not to come back.
because there's really no point in waiting for the third saturday of the month to come.
not for this.
not unless you're a lesbian.
then maybe you'd have a good time.