Member-only story
The Barfly Reformation
Sometimes I like to sneak away and grab a drink or two (or seven) at a local bar. But more-and-more I find myself awash in the low-tide of regulars. Friendly enough at first, luring me into conversation, only to crumble our budding relationship with cringe — as they hit on a bartender half their age and twice out of their league.
It’s not just that these people are unsavory with women that gets me — it’s when the bartender gladly walks away and they pivot back to me, to tell yet another story about themselves.
It’s the self-involvement. I can’t fucking stand it.
So I leave the bar. At first. Then turn around and sit my ass back down. Why should I leave? Hell, why should any of these people be like this? Has anyone told them that every story and anecdote and caveat is always only and ever only about themselves? How frustrating. That’s what it is. It’s fucking frustrating. And a waste of my time. How the hell is a man supposed to play Keno without hearing the same lame war stories of some unaccomplished 43-year-old who can’t seem to understand they’re the sole reason that they’re alone?
