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Dancing queen

My shoulders as limp as my sweaty hair and my limbs as heavy as that dark craft beer I couldn’t afford but bought anyway, I slumped on the couch. I felt like a tree branch, but I had snapped off the trunk and had fallen to the ground hours ago and since been trampled on. This is typically how I felt on my Friday summer nights.

Who knew I could be this tired at 21? I’m supposed to be chugging “the cheapest mixed drink that will still get me messed up” while simultaneously throwing back tequila shots until the bars close every night.

But I’m tired. Too tired.


“Alexa, play ABBA.”

Bright notes pop into the air. Sunny vocals stream through me and laugh out of me, shimmering out from my gleeful fingertips. “Mamma Mia” melodies slide down the tubes of my veins, and I become happy.

Suddenly, I am dancing. I am dancing colors and words and feelings. My best friend, long brown hair dyed blonde from sunny days with me streaming from his head, jives beside me. He rolls on the ground, and spins around. My heels thud against floor, my arms flailing.

Now we’re at a bar, our toes playing tag with each other. We’re at a festival, and spectators form a circle around us. We’re sweeping across the tiled dance floor at a wedding.

We polka to rap music; we tango to pop songs; we “Macarena” to everything. Our legs fly out like frogs’ for hours, when no one else is dancing and when seemingly everyone has joined us.

In the comfort of my own home, I scream lyrics over the sound of running water, shuffling and swaying as I wash dishes.

I love music. I love dancing. For me, it is that simple.

I am tired of the notion that a certain music taste is necessary or correct. I am tired of the boy who will call me a “fake fan” for not knowing any lyrics at a concert and tired of the girl who listens to only the music that will make that type of boy like her and “how do you not know this song?” and “you’ve never even heard of this band?”

I just want to listen to music. I don’t have to know every word and the entire backstory of a band to enjoy their music.

There is no right or wrong music taste. Music is made for us to listen to; it is not meant to be just a factor used in judging a person.

Additionally, you don’t have to commit yourself to one genre. Because you love screamo, you must hate the Backstreet Boys? Wrong.

Listen to what you want to listen to, and let others listen to what they want to listen to. Keep an open mind and just let music… be.

So, as the year progresses, I encourage you to join me in the seats of Dingeldine at a jazz concert and at a fraternity house doing the Wobble.

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