12:40 a.m.

Back on the dance floor:
“That which don’t kill me can on-
ly make me stronger.”

12:19 to 12:28 a.m.

Oh shit, rumor is one
fainting and one seizure;
this is serious.

A girl sits up, she’s
okay but no idea as
for the other one.

The girl is shaking
and I hear sirens pulling
up now, and I’m scared.

Natalie’s crying
and I’m scared and keep writing
in fucking haikus.

8:19 p.m.
When asked how I passed,
please just tell them my last words
were “I luh da keedz.”

7:54 p.m.
My bra band is like,
“Hey, what’s up,” and I’m all like,
“Shut up, bra, you hurt.”

7:48 p.m.
Block could be better.
I’m getting delirious.
I’m out of nuggets.

7:40 p.m.
My feet feel like blocks
of concrete slathered in molt-
en lava from an erupting
volcano overlooking a frozen
spring and yes I know it
breaks meter but it’s how I
feel, ok??

7:32 p.m.
Body won’t stop dancing.
Visiting friends, or in line,
I can’t stop. I’m scared.

7:26 p.m.
No one cares who let
the dogs out. So DJ, let’s
play the good stuff, yeah?

7:15 p.m.
I had visitors!
And, more importantly, they
brought chicken nuggets

6:50 p.m.
Twenty-four hours,
two renditions of Journey
DM, stay classy.

6:40 p.m.
Just called eight people
“you sexy thing.” Thus is the
power of song. Save me.

6:35 p.m.
These money deadline
teasers are toying with my
Jewish emotions.

6:16 p.m.
The new small talk is:
“So, what’s new with you? Besides,
um, hours of dancing.”

5:43 p.m.
Dancer Relations:
Treats you like a criminal,
then claps. in. your. face.

5:20 p.m.
Get to sit and watch
a dance. My feet are on fire.
Not in the good way.

5:02 p.m.
Hey, let’s just play
“YMCA” so armpits
will get raised all high.

4:47 p.m.
The “Soulja Boy” dance?
Oh dear, “30 Hour Dance,”
You’ve hit a new low.

4:34 p.m.
Lead singer’s wearing
Flight of the Conchords t-shirt.
Let’s forego pre-nup.

4:08 p.m.
I’m dancing. Without
music. I mean, I’m doing
a sweet job. But still.

3:37 p.m.
And my feet would be
their leathery lesbian
cousins, Gert and Jan.

3:35 p.m.
If my knees were kids,
they’d be redhead step-children
with scabies. Named Madge.

3:21 p.m.
Don’t fake “Soulja Boy,”
you’re toying with the pipe dreams
of all the geek-boys.

3:04 p.m.
In the bathroom, girls
are discussing “the escape.”
Decide it’s pointless.

But they also know
how easy it would be to
ditch the tag and run.

And hate being told
when to use the bathroom by
girls three years younger.

2:35 p.m.
I’ve started saying,
“Only nine hours until…”
DM warped my mind.

2:21 p.m.
My stomach feels like
I drank too much while I
was dancing. Oh wait.

1:15 p.m.
Monitored in the
bathroom in case I try to
escape through the drain.

11:40 a.m.
Something’s not quite right
about shaking a Fiji
water to rap songs.

10:55 a.m.
A DM hobby:
Watching my leg hair grow for
thirty fun hours.

10:10 a.m.
Whoa, oa, halfway there.
Whoa, oa, living on a prayer.
Fine, I love DM.

9:35 a.m.
It’s real hard to blink
because remembering to
unblink is harder.

8:39 a.m.
Bouncer from Hundo
just wished me good luck. Now that’s
surreal as all hell.

7:56 a.m.
Feel like an orphan
wrapped in sewage and left to
die in Kosovo.

You all remember
Kosovo? And pogs? I do.
I like beds. Miss ‘em.

7:29 a.m.
Some sort of band plays.
Holy shit has crashing cymbals –
really a good choice?

6:43 a.m.
Head getting heavy.
Syllables don’t come easy.
Girl next to me does.

5:07 a.m.
But seriously,
stop trying to teach this dance
and put on some Cher.

4:20 a.m.
Foot massage from chick.
Feel like I should’ve taken
her to dinner first.

3:10 a.m.
Guy with brain cancer
puts things in perspective and
my knees feel just fine.

1:20 a.m.
Good props for dancing:
Empty water bottles and
amputation knives.

12:26 a.m.
A little confused:
Not sure, but think I just learned
the Electric Slide.

10:46 p.m.
There’s the smoke machine.
Because a fire scare is
what this party needs.

10 p.m.
Feet up in the air —
so the blood can drain back up.
Not so sexy, huh?

9:40 p.m.
It’s time to rotate.
The committees are clapping
at me. Make them stop.

9:15 p.m.
Dudes wearing earplugs
while screaming to high heavens.
Irony is cruel.

6:58 p.m.
Now we’re all yelling:
“We love the kids!” This is true.
I love twelve-year-olds.

6:56 p.m.
Team Bobb-McCulloch:
Sober for thirty hours, but
still belligerent.

toothpastefordinner.com

I hate dancing and I love sleeping, but somehow I’m about to do one of those things for 30 hours at the expense of the other. No, I’m not being induced into a light coma (but I totally would if someone would pay to see that). Today, I’ll be haplessly head-bobbing, hip-swaying and haiku-ing my way through Dance Marathon. You heard right: there will be hip swaying!

And yes, I will be bringing a yet-to-be-purchased tiny notebook and yet-to-be-found-in-the-recesses-of-my-backpack pencil onto the dance floor, where I will be tracking my downward spiral into delirium — in haiku form.

For the uninitiated / McCormick kiddies, a haiku is a three-line poem with a strict syllabic meter: 5, 7, 5. For example:

Why am I dancing?
Roommate really wanted to,
and I’m a pussy.

See what I did there? I’ll be doing that for 30 hours, come 7 p.m., when the good people here at NBN will be decoding my scratch handwriting and posting my haikus to the site in (almost) real time. So if you’re not dancing, stay tuned. And if you are dancing? I’ll meet you at the bleary end.