The Shaking House

Remember the vibration: the beat. The floor is slippery from beer or sweat, and shoes slide in screeching patterns. The shivering of the dance floor pulses throughout my entire body, my pelvis trembling with a sensual feeling that only blasted, twenty-first century rap can give me.
Strobe lights overhead accelerates the feeling of complete disorientation, and for a moment I feel as though I am being tortured into senselessness. My eyes try to blink in time to the flickering light and cannot keep up with its fast pace. 
Every once in awhile the lights switch to disco-like colors, or that one would find in a nineties skating rink. Black lights along the walls give an underground sensation, and a slightly scary one. Teeth, when exposed in wide smiles in a dark room under the black light, are very bright. They glow with a terrifying, alien gleam that tends to match equally opaque eyes. Those with contact lenses are especially noticeable.
There is something to said for the closeness of humans in such an environment. Bodies pressed together, elbows and knees slamming into each other, girls in sweaty, silky shirts swaying to the rhythm of the bass-line beat, boys staring in fear or confidence, hands on the hips of his two-minute dancing partner: this seems very primal. 
Stepping into a room full of inebriated minors and dancing wildly to awful rap music (really, who came up with 'bag you like some groceries'? is that art?) for two hours has never been my idea of fun, but; welcome to college. All I can really say is that I'll try to enjoy myself while I can, out in the dark, cool night with my friends; ready to feel that bass again.