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Verge 2013: Becoming


Joel Lazar

This is what I did over the past day;

a kind of a diary.

First I wake up and, straight up, you know, before I do anything else – I hit the dance floor.

Before anything else, that’s what I do.

Then I put my hands up on the dance floor

and I ask four bitches and three hoes to shake their arses on the dance floor.

I take a breather (on the dance floor)

and spend more time on the dance floor

with those same bitches and hoes that I mentioned before.

At about one o’clock I ask a few people if they can handle the dance floor and if they are ready for it (it being the dance floor).

I then confirm, probably for the first time that day, that I am

burning up the dance floor and that few people can handle

that heat (the heat being spread over the
entire dance floor).

I then thank the DJ for getting me to fall in love with one of the three hoes – the red-head one, I think.

About half an hour later, I consider leaving the dance floor to call my wife.

Decide not to.

For the next few hours I confirm for the second time that I am still (you better believe it) burning up the dance floor (why do you look so surprised?) and that no one can handle that heat (the heat being spread, still, would you believe it, over almost the entire dance floor).

At about five fifteen I suddenly realise

that the beat makes a bomp, bomp, bomp sound

which in turn makes the dance floor behave likewise

(and so too your arse; whoever you in fact are).

It starts to get dark outside and

things begin to really heat up

on the dance floor, not just for me – but everyone who is on it –

(for me it was already hot on the dance floor since about morning tea)

and then there is an auspicious feeling that the night ahead will really go down on the dance floor.

At seven o’clock I confirm, I think for the third time, the searing heat that seemed to cling to the dance floor without relent (what? You don’t think I know the word ‘relent’? Fuck you).

Til midnight, on the dance floor, the night becomes the best night of my life and we all just wish it would never end (oh, yeh).

On the chime I romantically offer to get into her pants (who?) after a hot night on the dance floor.

I get told off, pretty bad, that no man

talks to her that way and that

 I can look,

but I can’t touch.

As the bitches start filing out, I begin to wonder what tomorrow might hold.

I hope more stuff on the dance floor.

Verge 2013: Becoming

   by Peter Dawncy and Camille Eckhaus