Some people have to dance.
Like my friend “Liz.”
It’s a matter of survival.
I have to WRITE.
You know who you are.
You get the emails.
Filled with paranoia and panic, exuberance and excitement, drama and delusion.
You know the ones I mean.
From now on, they’ll be posted here.
This is my dance floor.
Where I’ll soar and inevitably trip on the high heels I couldn’t really afford but bought anyways.
Where I’ll pick up my discombobulated self, dust off my knees and try to exit gracefully.