As I walk into the abandoned warehouse in Orono, I once again realize why I hate dances. The cool kids call these parties “raves,” and they consist of flashing neon lights which produce migraines within minutes, music so loud it can burst an eardrum, and hundreds of teenagers grinding in a mosh pit of body odor. I’d much rather be watching Lion King with my mom, but no, my friends drag me to this party where sweaty kids lose their innocence on the dance floor. Next time, I’ll stay home, but thanks for the invite.