tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23960500.post-90161395855988455832008-02-02T13:59:00.001-06:002008-02-02T14:14:10.949-06:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_VYck6NEZdVk/R6TO0HCbLMI/AAAAAAAAADY/5Mb2d0J2xdc/s1600-h/SaveTheLastDance.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_VYck6NEZdVk/R6TO0HCbLMI/AAAAAAAAADY/5Mb2d0J2xdc/s200/SaveTheLastDance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162478467511168194" /></a><br />It's true. I love this movie. It's not the plot - surprisingly enough - it's the dancing. (I'm so putting that Step Up movie on my Netflix.) I'm supposed to be cleaning the house right now. That was the plan, at least. A little mopping, some laundry. But when I got home from class, I ate a little yogurt and my jelly legs plopped themselves down on the couch to watch the little white girl get down. <br /><br />Maybe I could do a little sweep dancing or, uhm, dustbunny groove.theheyladynoreply@blogger.com