• A Brit dressed like a gladiator (or was it a Viking?) stopped me as I was walking on the dance floor to give me a 5 minute back and neck massage, because he could look at me and just tell I needed it.
• Then we danced on a couch to “I Love Rock & Roll.”
• During which, he let me hold his sword (that is not a metaphor) and later called me gorgeous.
• I kissed the pommie warrior because it was a really good massage and, more so, because he was cute–and hot people are rewarded for behavior that non-hot people are reviled for.
  
• I made really unfortunate eye contact with a sexagenarian during “Pony.”
  
  I am not horny. We will never do it. Excuse me while I go jump into a volcano.

• Had the #awkwardblackperson moment of being surrounded by non-Black people saying “nigga” because rap music gave our word away like secondhand electronics that no longer have the user manual attached.
• Danced something like an Irish jig with an Irish lad who tried to twirl me, unbeknownst to him, in a puddle of the tears of fermented grains, turning me into Tai when she meets Cher at the party.
  
  Except not on my butt. Flat on my front.
  Security came over.
  We had a laugh about it.
• A guy and his friend danced circles around me–not better than me, LITERALLY circles until I called them out for being weird.
• Another guy and his friends formed a circle around me because I was the best dancer they’d ever seen. You hear that, parents? Who says my dance degree is worthless?
• Tried to eavesdrop on the Brasileiras I heard in the bathroom with me, but quickly realized que minha compreensão auditiva tinha ido para a merda.

Bonus: stumbled upon a drag queen karaoke night on my way home, which the security guard let me into, where I witnessed a “lady” alternate between lip synching for her life and playing the recorder to “My Heart Will Go On” because sure.