I’ll take a disco beating and try to ignore the taste of not being with it, but I refuse to nurse my inhibitions and to drink their dollar drinks. One Drink Per Set Minimum Please insults my sense of individuality. I the anarchist make up devastating excuses but reply only a nothanks notrightnow to the devastating waitress. Making the scene with alcohol and nicotine a manicured blond redirects his predetermined blondness like his cousin beside him, with dress-covered breasts plasticated hair and moulded stare, and remain completely noncommittal as if made up to be let down. Superfluous decibels rape my inner ears, as if incessant repetition weren’t enough. Come on let’s dance, dance, get out there & lay it down, they sing, and so people move toward the floor with looks of clay as if their only thought were sung along with the song. I have little vivacity, but instead of proving it by following the anonymous lead or the music’s inane suggestion, I force a smile to signify my acute apperception and try to live it up a little by trying to take it easy.
13 May 1978