Friday Night Folly

I normally go to my neighborhood bar on Friday nights and have a few snorts of Jack Daniels, but tonight, I'm just not feeling it. The place is a drunken soap opera, a house of dipsomaniacs, a place where everyone knows my name.

It's just not right.

I used to be afraid to go to this little sauce shack by myself, but lately it seems that my weekends are spent there, watching the drama unfold like the legs on a Black Widow. Hello red violin, what song will you play for me tonight? The other people who go there are a mix of old hard-core drunkards -- hold overs from an epoch of when the place served only beer and wine -- and 25-year-old jerks who think it is appropriate to ask me to make out with them in the back room or slap my backside as I walk by. Tres romantique. The problem is a) this crap is getting boring, b) I'm really not into losing half of my Saturday to the inevitable hangover, and c) I'm tired of my apartment being used as a Motel 6 by the flotsam and jetsam that get too drunk to drive home. You see I live within stumbling distance from the bar. I ought to start charging for rental space on my floor. "And how many in your party sir? Just one? Right this way, you'll be sleeping next to the armoir. I trust it will be to your satisfaction? Of course sir, we have a kitten wake-up service that will pounce your eyes open in the morning."

So what else am I going to do? I really don't want to just sit home and stare at the cat. He's entertaining, but he can get very bitey when he's wound up. I can't sit home and drink because that means I am an alcoholic, and therefore will need an intervention. I suck at knitting, have no desire to clean my house, and eating is absolutely out of the question (please note the previous post). Frick. If I was smart I'd sit down and write. At home. Instead of work.

Mayhap I'll write about my adventures in this bar. Eh, maybe I'll just order up a Jack and Diet Coke and call it even.