“Just dance, it’ll be OK.”
-Lady Gaga
Eyeing their way past the strobe lights and rap music of the appropriately titled "After-Mixer-Mixer", my fellow campers are collecting new friends like holographic trading cards, forcing themselves to find their best friends and their future wives and their four-year study groups.
But I'm not.
I simply cannot fathom that the person next to me, yellow sweatband tied around his equally yellow hair, could be someone that I hang out with every night or discuss politics with over coffee or ask to be my tuxedoed best man at the wedding that I continue to merely assume that I will be having in eight years. I simply cannot bring myself to divest such a deep bond with a goateeed individual just because we happen to have adjacent plastic mattresses.
But this is the exact mindset of the collective majority around me. Not me. Not me.
I'm just here to dance.
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