Sometimes you wonder why we even bother getting involved with people at all.
Its one of those things that just hits when you’re in the middle of your whiskey therapy group session, the sad little gathering whose only clear underlying message is, “Hey, at least we’re all miserable together.” What a crock of shit.
Swirling the glass around a little, I stare through the dark brown of my bourbon at light brown oak of the bar. It’s kind of unclear as to the date or time; I feel as if I’ve lived this scene more times than I can remember. Not alone, per se, as I’m surrounded by a few of my closest friends and awful hip-hop blaring over the sound system of the bar. But I am alone at the same time, lost in the whirlwind of rationalization that rips through my brain like a barrage of uncomfortable pinpricks every time I sit down and start to think. I keep drinking steadily.
“What’s your deal, asshole? Smile a little.”
That would be my long-standing friend Jeff. While he lacks social tact at times, his unbridled enthusiasm for getting dangerously shitfaced has made him an ideal drinking buddy for years. At times I’ve wondered what it would be like to trade my mentality for his, to think less, and act more. Which of course only led to more thinking, and, naturally, more drinking.
“I’m just enjoying my whiskey. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Fuck that man, you need to go talk to some girls. Some pussy would be good for you.”
Oh no. A full, heaping portion of sass. Things like this have to be responded to carefully or you run the risk of losing face. Sometimes you have to decide between shutting your friends up by ruining their self-esteem or being a decent person and letting them down easy. Unfortunately for me, it seems that generalized apathy had erased the line between the two and had stamped my morals into submission.
“Every girl here is a whore and you’re an idiot. Leave me alone.”
But he doesn’t, of course. I listen to him run his mouth for a few more seconds before excusing myself to go outside and burn a cig. The air is crisp and cold, but it sobers me up a little, eyes squinting to gather in an accurate picture of the night around me. The spark of a lighter sends nicotine shooting into my system and puts pressure behind my eyes, leaving me slightly dizzy. Guess I had forgotten smoking fucks me up more when I’m drunk.
I have a few precious moments by myself before I’m interrupted again, this time by an older woman in a black dress, early forties if I had to guess. Her figure was sloppy at best, and she had a large flashy ring on her left hand. I’d bet she probably has children that are older than I am.
“Got a light?” Her eyes are glassy and her tone is loud, probably from sipping Cosmos she didn’t buy for herself, with men that weren’t her husband. I would gladly give her my lighter if she promised to go away and not talk to me. Of course, I’m not that lucky.
I hold it out without saying a word, flashing a half assed smile and then turned away to take another drag. Amazingly, I’m immediately accosted because of the color of my Bic. “Are you gay? Why would you have a pink lighter?” God, that’s so embarrassing. Gag. I try to laugh it off, explaining I had purchased a pack of five and the color was beyond my control, blah blah blah. But as with all stupid conversations, my heart wasn’t really into it, and I stopped trying to explain. Unfortunately my silence only seemed to fuel the idiot even more, her next target being my shirt, a solid color blue button-down.
“What’s wrong with my shirt?”
“The color isn’t right for you. You’re cute, but you need to wear something else, like, brown. Something that matches your eyes.”
“I like this color. And the shirt was a gift from my sister.”
“Yeah, but see how I’m wearing black, and it works with my hair? It’s too bad I look so fat in this dress.”
It never ceases to astonish me that those who possess literally no self esteem are always the ones running their mouths in a pathetic attempt to make other people feel bad. Musing to myself, I imagined it was comparable to enduring a sneak attack from a blind person. I let her know in a few more words that she was a pain in the ass and that I would never do her another favor again. And oh, thanks for making my brain hurt, you waste of space.
On the way inside, my phone goes off. More shenanigans, this time from a girl I’d love to talk to sober but only seems to call me when she’s drunk. Bitch. I consider calling anyways but turn the phone off and stuff it back in my pocket.
Jeff wanders back over. “Who were you yelling at outside?”
“No one. Shots?” I wave the bartender over before he has time to respond.
“No, I think I’m good.” His smile is getting to be permanent, and I can tell he’s not lying.
“Three shots of Crown and a Crown on the rocks.” The man eyes me suspiciously. I stare right back until he goes about preparing my order.
I slam down two and slide the other one back to the bartender, giving him a nod. The shots burn in my throat as I resume swirling my drink, and staring down at the bar. I’m sufficiently messed up to the point where my ass feels like it’s molded to the stool. Fifteen minutes later I finish up my drink, toss on my jacket, yell some goodbyes, and grab my keys. Was I dreaming? Had this happened before? Sometimes it just all feels the same.
Yeah, I still don’t know why I bother.
