One pint, two pints, three pints, four. I don't remember. I had more, for sure.
I enjoyed sitting on that bench so much that I went inside this hell hole and got myself drunk. I'm sure Marie will yell at me. Yell and nag and point at my face while complaining that I spent all the money. I should care, since I'm the only one making it, but I'm not. I don't know. The alcohol is talking, for sure.
I'm looking at this douchebag bartender, who only cares about making more money for the pub by trying to swindle others into buying a double or a large glass, or sides for their meals. It's admirable that he wants that, but he's not getting any tips, the lummox. For sure.
I think they're open for three more hours. I can last. My wallet can last. Will my stomach last? It better. When was the last time I drank this much? Four months ago? Six? Jenny's party? Grr... Not only do those moments seem far, but they also feel happy.
They say that there has to be a sad moment through every relationship. I don't know who they are or how they know this, yet mine has had one too many. Maybe I need find myself a new woman a kick that brunette out of my life. For sure.
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