zenexistence

I spend a lot of time in bars.

[Editors note - Hello. I'm going to need you to take that deliciously large slice of sarcasm that you're wanting to deliver me SO badly right now, shove it somewhere that lacks significant light and offers no propensity for photosynthesis and just allow me to continue. Thanks.]

I do not spend this time in the slovenly, drunkard, puke-in-my-own-shoe, sense of the meaning.
Surprised?
It's either that or solely spend time in a coffee shops/bookstore and while those places can be damn interesting in and of themselves, bars are a comfort spot that are, well, just that ... a spot. If my narrow ass chooses to rest upon and inhabit said spot, as long as I'm buying a drink of an sort this slight, most miniscule of rental properties is mine, however inconsequential that may seem.
No contract.
No early termination penalty.
True, I might have shit neighbors who are overly-loud, stink of urine or projectile vomit in an untimely manner but I'm willing to partake of such grand ambiance as I pay so little (and gain so much) from this ever-so humble port in the storm.
But this barstool that I rent is also my muse.
I rent a muse.
Hmm, that actually makes my muse a prostitute.
With four wooden legs.
Moving on, I often draw my inspiration from the atmosphere around me and bars (and coffee shops, to a lesser degree) have a sort of hectic energy to them, a sort of symbiotic trade alliance. This may have something to do with the fact that these places ply their trade by supporting the chosen vice to our addictive personalities but, well, I'm cool with that. A famous person once said, "Without vices we'd be boring a shit."
Okay, actually I said that and I'm not famous but I think my point it still damn valid and, as Morgan here so eloquently portrays ...



So, yes, I spend a fair amount of times at bars.
But I only have a drink or two. No vast quantities anymore.
No thank you.
Anyhoo, I worked behind bars for almost a decade so I'd like to think I'm a pretty good patron. I tip well, know what I want, never pester the bartender and always randomly flash the bartenders my breasts when necessary.
Last Friday was ...
Whoa.
Hold on.
Did I just say flash bartenders my breasts?
Just seeing if you were paying attention.
As I was saying, I consider myself a decent patron and as a result most bartenders (that are worth their salt) get to know my name pretty quickly and normally have whatever my chosen vice is ready soon after I'm seated. I like this relationship. It works well. You feed me (liquid) I feed you (cash) we all go home satisfied (wooden four-legged whore muse).



All of that is hunky-dory, so here is how you lose me as a patron wicked fast:

(1) Stand on the other side of the bar and talk loudly to a co-worker about how you got fucked/were fucked last night. I.don't.care. Most of us don't care. If I'd wanted to know that you got rammed like the Titanic by an iceberg, I wouldn't be seeking you out at a bar, I'd be seeking you out on an overly-expensive chat line such as 1-888-I'MADISGUSTINGWHOREBAG.

(2) Bitch about your shitty tips from earlier in the day to a fellow co-worker. Shut up. I don't care. Most of us don't care. There's a good possibility that your tips suck because you have a negative attitude, as is currently on display by your whining to your fellow co-worker right in front of your currently thirsty patrons.

(3) Cover up that hickey on you neck, Bubba Jean. We're not in Arkansas, we're not buying drinks in a trailer park, and it's not cute. [Editors note - No offense to Arkansas and/or trailer parks.]

(4) Have the semblance of a personality. It doesn't even have to be a huge personality but just have one. Buy one. Rent one. I know that I for one could be in a rotten mood while serving but you need to suck it up and at least come off as pleasant. Chatty isn't always necessary but it definitely helps with the tips.

(5) God oh god, please kinda know your beers. I realize that a lot of bars stock a hundred different types but try to learn even a bit about them. I'll even help you through it, I'll help you pronounce it, I'll even tell you basic bullet points about the beer so you can sell it better later. But god, oh god, work with me.



My whole convoluted point here was that I get a goodly amount of what I write while partaking of beverages. Sometimes I bring a journal along, sometimes a laptop, sometimes I actually write on the iPhone.
[Editors note - Almost insureing no girls will ever talk to me. ]
Something about drinking calms me down, relaxes me, allows me to zen-out a bit.



On another front, I need a way to get into a hospital.
No, I'm not injured.
I'm tired of working as a surgeons assistant and hospitals will pay for you to go to school. Well, I've been a surgeons assistant for almost four years so I can legally challenge the CNA (certified nursing assistant) national boards. It's a lower-paying job but it insures a position in a hospital and every hospital I've checked has multiple positions available. So I'm going to do it. Looks better on my resume too.



I'm running out of gas [ew!] here so you'll get more pics.



Aww, and kissing makes me think of ...



Which makes me think of ...



Which, finally, makes me think of ...



Okay, I hear suhsi calling.

<3
Scotty