You are seated at the long, brown, sticky bar, tumbler in hand, already two or three drinks into what promises to be an evening you will regret tomorrow morning. You don’t care. You don’t give a rat’s ass about that ginger bastard because he’s a ginger bastard and—damn, cigarette’s close to the filter in your hand, you can feel the heat from the cherry—if he wants to run after that blonde no-talent whore, that’s on his head. So what if you (think that you) “get him,” and so what if he appeals to your intellectuality. You don’t appeal to his and that’s that. Get over it. Have a drink and get the fuck over it.
Another cigarette? Yes, please. Chain smoking like a boss.
Your friend, the busty brunette, sits next to you actually enjoying getting her drink on and lightly flirting with the barkeep. He is quite a looker, but you have a purpose tonight, and that’s to be miserable and drink until the No Pain Zone is reached. The irony of the No Pain Zone compared to the hangover you are setting yourself up for hits you and you chuckle quietly, bitterly, to yourself.
“What’s wrong?” she says. Like she doesn’t know.
“Same ole,” you respond, your accent heavy with sloppy speech and intoxicated tongue. A few more shots and you’ll drop into your best Scottish accent. The smoke from your Djarum burns the inside of your nose and you sneeze a funny half-sneeze to try to clear it out. Take a drink, feel the vodka on the back of your throat. Damn, they make the drinks strong here. Maybe that’s why you like this place so much.
“You’re moving through those quick,” she says comfortingly. “If you’re going to blow your week’s drink budget tonight, we should go to The Usual.”
“Bitch,” you cut your eyes to her, your tone playful, “we’re at The Usual.”
“You know where you are, that’s a good start.” She turns her eyes to the karaoke stage where your other friends, the crazy raven-haired beauty and the short-ass, well-endowed redhead, are actually doing well with Lady Marmalade.
“Shut up,” you laugh and shake your head, your long brown braid flopping to and fro at your back. You can feel the greasy stage makeup on your forehead and make a note to scrub it off next time you hit the loo.
“I love you. Do you want me to tell you when you’ve had enough?”
“Not tonight. Let me drink.” You pause. “No, you probably better tell me if I get sleepy. I’ve got at least six or seven more drinks before I die.”
“Pushing the poisoning border, eh?”
“I’m just angry.”
“Which is a terrible reason to drink. You should be enjoying yourself. It’s our night out.”
“You’re right,” you sigh. “You always are. But it feels okay tonight.”
“Porthos says we can stay the night with her.”
“Excellent. Her toilets are the best.”
“Why don’t you join me in a Jello shot and then have just beer after this drink, okay?”
“Yes. Jello shots. Aramis, you are a genius.”
“And then only beer,” she presses. “We do have a show tomorrow.”
“Right.” You allow yourself the luxury of a snarl into your drink. Another show, another kiss that means nothing. Fuckin’ hell.