I always refer to myself as a “retired raver” because I rarely go out, can’t dance for eight hours at a time, and am not the e-tard I used to be. But a few times a year the “retired” comes off that title and I just fully freak out in front of a speaker. Saturday night was one of those nights, and I found the absolutely perfect spot to spend exactly 2 hours dancing my sober ass off: the front right speaker at Neumos was far away from the bar and on the way to nothing, which meant nobody elbowing me or passing by. To my right was an emergency exit, which the security guard would prop open when he wanted to smoke, allowing the cool air to flow into the poorly ventilated club.

Best of all? The enormous speakers were well-tuned and perfectly blocked my view of the DJ, who’s music I love but who’s attitude bothers me. It was ideal: I had bass booming so hard that it made my skirt flutter (I’m totally not exaggerating, and yes, I wore earplugs) but the arrogant DJ didn’t get the satisfaction of seeing me shake it. I’m the bitterest groupie ever. I even have the damn DJ-branded tank-top, but I refuse to let the DJ himself see me wear it. Take that! I’ll support, but I won’t let you know. Hurrumph.

All scenester bitchery aside, it was awesome. I danced non-stop and didn’t let a single fool come between me and that enormous bass bin. Heavenly. Last month marked my 10 year raveversary and while I certainly don’t go out much (or imbibe at all), there’s no denying the simple truth that my version of heaven involves dancing my ass into a sweaty pulp and making out with Andreas in front of an enormous bass bin. Some things just don’t ever get old.