Sitting at this corner table in a bar, at the fabulous hour of 1 p.m., when almost nobody is around, can't help but wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
Why do I have a double whisky on the rocks when I'm not even that sad?
Why am doing in this kind of place at this time of day when I could easily be home? Better yet, I could be out shopping, or in the park, or doing something other than wasting money on alcohol.
I don't need this crap in my life. I don't-
"-I'd like to do to them what they did to me, you know? I have eight scars, I have a hard time finding a job, I have... Well, if you want to go call the police on me saying that I'm going to commit murder, be my guest."
What the fuck is that all about? A not so drunk guy talking to the bartender about his problems? Do they know each other? Don't reckon it.
I may be miserable, but I think that bloke is out of his mind.
"I get home smashed every day, but I'm gonna surprise my mum and be sober. This is my third one. That's as good as I can be."
It's these kinds of people that drive me away from places like these. Actually, they're the ones that can scare customers off.
I feel bad for the bartender.