like a Polaroid picture

i didn't plan on getting quite that drunk.
and i definitely didn't plan on going to the Palace.
i've never understood dance bars, all loud and cramped and shitty music and the only way to communicate with someone is by grinding your ass against their ass.
i prefer talking.
i'm good at communicating with my mouth, though it's often just random, sarcastic vulgarities, linked together with profanity (and peppered with a dash of grace and humility.)
but not last night.
last night i communicated with my body.
i shook my skinny, white ass.
like a motherfucker.
onstage.
in front of 200 people.
with my shirt off.
that's right, i was a contestant in the Palace's infamous Hard Bodies/Sexy Legs contest. the other contestants just got up there and flexed, pimping their precious muscles, trying desperately to impress the female population.
not me.
i ripped off my shirt and went intergalactic.
breakdancing. rolling around like a wounded, dyslexic coyote. i even did some one armed push-ups to mock the toughies.
it must have been appalling to watch.
(he's so pale! look at the bones! weird nipples!)
but apparently, being pale and twitchy was the order of the night.
i made it to the semi-finals.
and the second i got offstage, two girls i've never met before in my life grappled onto me, screaming "you were so awesome! omigod!" someone bought me a drink. i danced with a hundred different people and got a million high fives.
instant fanclub.
all these years of publicly making an ass of myself finally paid off.
common sense and decent behavior are dead to me now.
i'm going to act a fool everyday for the rest of my life.
to quote Sleater-Kinney on their brilliant new album, The Woods (cough, out now on Sub Pop, cough, cough):
All you want is entertainment,
Rip me open it's free