I don’t dance. Not really. Maybe for a second. Maybe if I am completely alone. Com-friggin’-pletely. If the music really moves me. The internal music, moreso than the external. I don’t like people watching me dance. I like attention for the things… I like getting attention for? I’m a moderately friendly giant in a land of pint-sized French people. I’ve always naturally shown up on dance floors.  Not a fan. Maybe I’ll do a little head-bob. Then I’ll go to do something with my hands, over-think it, and fix my hair. Or, you know, baseball cap. Not even I really think that everyone is looking at me all the time. Mostly. But they could. They totally could, man. At any moment. I’m relatively sure that I can’t dance. Like Phil Collins and shit. But maybe I’m secretly like Footloose and am just all up in my head. The first one. He’s been working so hard. Punching his card. Though probably not. My point is that I don’t dance. But you kind of make me want to.

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