Silly Ariel, Raves are for Kids


There are times when I’m really feeling my age. When I buy a six-pack of Four Loco and the cashier doesn’t even ask for my ID. Or the brats outside the Mini Mart just assumed I was old enough to buy said Four Loco for them. (or that I don’t have taste buds.) But I really, REALLY feel ancient when I go to a rave.
Hey, I like EDM, I like the “Dubstep” or whatever the kids are calling it these days. So sometimes I’ll go to these clubs to shake my booty or whatnot, and quickly realize I have more moving parts (or should I say, more parts resembling Jello) than my dance-floor compadres. That’s fine, I can just wrap myself in tinfoil as opposed to the dental-floss fluorescent string bikini and still look like a drug-addled Skrillex groupie. But here’s the part that freaks me out: being hit on by underage dudes. I suppose it’s flattering, but let’s face it: these kids are so fucking tweaked out of their gourds they’d hit on a lava lamp. Still, I just think of those female teachers who seduce their seventh graders and their mug shots show up online. And they NEVER look good!!! I don’t care how hot you are, being busted for hooking up with underage dick adds like 50 years of indoor tanning and 75 years of chain smoking to your face in those pics. (do police stations have reverse Photoshop for criminal humiliation? Will have to check on that.)
So for vanity’s sake, please leave me alone, ravers. Mamma just wants to dance.

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