Went up to see the kidz in the apartments up the street after dinner last night, find out what was up; I'd felt that strange buzz in the air when you know something's gonna happen. They were all there having drinks and talking about going out later...for dancing...club dancing...something I've done a heck of a lot of in my short and blessed life, but not lately.

I haven't danced for almost two years. Used to go out daily (nightly?) when I lived in London but upon my return to Toronto in 1998 I quit hard drugs (ie. class a's - I still enjoy the odd herbal jazz cigarette) and avoided all enticements to do drugs. Ever since, I've felt there was something missing...always thought it was the drugs, and beat myself up about this something fierce.

Now I know. It was the dancing.

I love dancing. I love, love, love, dancing so hard and for so long I think my legs will give out. The English are pros at this. I got my start in this scene in Koh Phan-gan, Thailand, at a resort called Bottle Beach...the original inspiration for the (decent) novel and (atrocious) movie, The Beach. I was there around the same time author Alex Garland was there - 1995-96 or so - but never met him. Every night some amateur dj would spin and everyone would just get silly till we all fell down, 5 a.m. - sunrise. It became part of me then, I think.

Provisional leader for the evening was gorgeous Tyler, gayboy M.A.C. counter worker; his roommate Meghan, the epitome of the ditzy blonde; Jo the RMT and myself. These kids are not what I would call "good" friends, though I suppose there's a latent clique there if I wanted it - not sure, however, how well I'd get along with a crew who can't pronounce "Curacao" or know what labour day is for, never mind god knows what else they don't know. Friendly as all get-out, yes; stimulating conversation, no.

Didn't really matter since the club Tyler took us to was, as per usual, too loud to talk. Typical place, really - undifferentiated house music and shirt-lifting gayboys, mainly of the muscle mary variety. Gay clubs are great for straight girls who aren't into going out dancing to meet men. You get lots of "you're so gorgeous, honey", with none of the get yer dick wet ulterior motive.

We were all drunk as skunks at the beginning but as soon as we were inside I started pounding the caffeine drinks back to pre-empt any urge I might have to do something harder. By the end of the night I'd been offered coke, e, and crystal - the final one kind of freaked me out, thinking how not too long ago I would have actually paid to get near that SHIT. The caffeine drinks (think they were called "Generation"; kind of tasty in a strawberry-sweet energy bev kind of way), very happily, did the trick.

So I danced, and I danced, and I danced. I feel GREAT today, and now I can say I did something this weekend, which makes feeling great even more sweet.

Oh yes. Ponytail, leopard-print slip with red straps, black knee-high boots.
That's all.