Bars And Bad Beer

Between the whole I’m-too-naive-to-realize-the-man-I-loved-was-married fiasco and the time spent with my cousin in a few bars and local hangouts last night, I’m really starting to understand that finding the sort of relationship that I long for is not going to be easy. And before anyone says bars aren’t the best place to meet men . . . well yes, I know that, and it’s really not the point. It’s more just that I got a bit overwhelmed with the strangeness of it all, the whole dance, the back and forth, the games.

I don’t know. I think I’m just feeling a bit down. And my ear hurts, which can’t be good news. I’m going to bed. Early, for me at least, barely after midnight. Let’s hope sleep is within reach, I’m getting a bit tired of the whole toss and turn all night long thing.

Oh, one last thought. What, exactly, is the purpose behind men deliberately drinking the shittiest beers imaginable? No one actually drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon on purpose, at least not more than once. Nasty swill, my god. Yeah, I took a few sips, but that is because I’m a nice person and I know how hard it is to approach someone. But here’s the deal . . . we’d have talked to you anyway. Next time, if you want to buy a round, consider asking us what we want first. Thank you!

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