SHUT THE FUCK UP ON THE DANCEFLOOR, SWEETIES
For the love of God, just stop talking
OK babes, I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to pretend the pandemic is ovah (again) by going goblin at the klerb. That shit is gonna feel so freeeee. Not like last year’s hot vax summer fakeout, when we hauled our broken brains to the raves and just weren’t feeling it. Wanted to be, so badly actually. But ~the vibes were off~ or whatever. Nah. This spring the vibe shifted. Fuck it, we’re gonna run around the parties pulling people’s masks off like OMICRON IS OVER BITCHESS! Catch us cutting up lines with our vaccine cards. Turning our inhalers into ketamine vapes. Gargling spit from strangers from Feeld. IT’S FERAL GIRL SPRING BABY, YOU CAN’T CANCEL ME, LET’S PARTYYY.
You know what sucks, though? Every time I pop out, I keep running into fools talking on the dancefloor. Just standing around, chitty-chatting. Doesn’t matter if it’s peak time, party’s popping, and they’re literally right in front of the performers. These morons are oblivious. So wrapped in their mundanity that they cannot perceive how their prattling is harshing the energy. Their existence is an affront to society, a profane perversity. Gazing upon these clueless clowns, the rave gods claw their eyes out and moan until their voices grow hoarse:
SHUT THE FUCK UP ON THE DANCEFLOOR, SWEETIES!!!
Listen we get it: nobody wants to be inside right now, and sometimes the club is just the easiest place to pull up. Oh, aren’t these raves supposed to be safe spaces to do anything, you said? Who made me the Vibe Police? Don’t get snarky with me. I know it is very important to you to have detailed debates with your friends about precisely what drugs you should ingest throughout the course of the evening. That you would like to take this opportune moment, at 4:22am, to refine your philosophical position on the aesthetic castration of male DJs. Listen, just waddle a few steps over and lean against the wall. Or go to the place literally designated for you to blab to your heart’s content: THE SMOKING AREA. I will literally roll you a joint!
As you hit that, let me explain something: the key to a popping dancefloor is ENERGY CIRCULATION. The DJ opens the portal and radiates nrg through the speakers, which disseminates through the dancers and twists into an atmospheric vortex. So when Chatty Kathys cluster by the DJ booth, ya’ll create ENERGY BLOCKS right at the power source, siphoning radiance with your black hole of self-absorption. This is not your aunty’s tea party. We out here exorcising demons. Out here for dissolution, for relief, for fucking feeling something—not networking!!!
Nothing but the weary morning lies ahead.
So shut the fuck up and focus on going in.