Inner Monologue

My thoughts while at My Local Corner Bar a few weeks ago:

I’m in a really good mood.  I’m not surprised that Mengoni was the victor of Sanremo.

Interesting how music changes your state.

Didn’t get ID’ed at the door again, I think I might be coming here too much.

It’s social proof, don’t complain.

The band is playing, I’m undecided.

Open stool at the bar, score!

Raise a finger, get your beer first over the other schmoes.

Solitary girl next to me starts talking to me, inconsequential shit about a date happening nearby.

Why did she ask me the same question for the fifth time?

She seems cute.

Bang?  Maybe…it has been awhile.

She’s verrrry drunk (not a plus).

Interested but doesn’t ask my name?

Red flag.

She looks haggard close up.

What the fuck is with that line on the inside of her lips?

31?  But not a hot 31.


The wall is approaching.

She just put her legs up on your lap.

Tell, nay, calmly order her to remove “her dirty boots” from your lap.

Good, she took her boots off of you.

Turn back to NBA game you don’t care about.

Oh look, group of younger girls to your left!

The Brunette is cute.

A pseudo-bachelorette party? Okay, it’s an excuse to keep drinking after the bridal shower.

Brunette isn’t wearing a ring.

Wait, did 31 year old girl just call me a “fag?”

She did, damn.  I actually expected “asshole” but “fag” that’s a new one.


Haha!  The future bride came up for an another drink with one of her friends (bridesmaid).

She’s wasted, time to tease for a bit.

That was fun.  Time for another beer.

31 year old left, thank God.

Shit, she moved and is mean-mugging me.  Goddamn, this girl is thirsty.

Goddamn, I’m tired.

Alright, beer is done.  I’m fucking done for the night.

Peace out Local Corner Bar.

Fucking cold.


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