I said, I don't dance. I never said I couldn't.

The lover has always wanted to see me dance. I told him he'll never get to watch me doing the moves, even when he's already 80 in his wheelchair and without anymore teeth. He says, please, please, please, dance for me. I say, get me drunk first. But we never got the chance; it's either he was too drunk to remember that I'd dance for him, or it was I who was too drunk, I was puking all over my boss' sink all night.

But I have always wanted to dance for him, though I never told him. I wanted to give him a private lap dance with just my lingerie on on our 24-hour challenge, but I have to be drunk (just the right kind of drunk) and high on weed. But our friend Jackie never did give us the stuff, and our 24-hour challenge is already off, because well, yeah. I just got dumped.

Now Lady Gaga's Just Dance is playing over and over, as well as Mr. Schue's version of Thong Song, and I remember the lover. How he loved to dance, how good he is as a dancer, and how hot he is when he is dancing. I regret that I'll probably never get to watch him dance again, fully clothed or only in his briefs. Oh well, I say, there's probably somebody out there that would dance for me, maybe not as good as how the lover does it, but if he's willing to put up with my crazies, then all would be just fine.

And I promise I would dance for him, too. Maybe She and Him's Sweet Darling for starters, I just hope I wouldn't step on his foot. But on second thought, If I ever do, then that would make a good memory of our first dance.