Um... what the fuck?
My friend Tyson recently got a bartending gig, and in an effort to bring back the great friendship we shared a year ago, a friendship that fell victim to various love triangles and scheduling conflicts, I have started hanging out at his bar. The key to restoring friendship, it seems, is free tequila.
Yeah, like I couldn't have told you that already.
Hanging out at the bar with Tyson pretty much consists of watching him code html on his laptop while I fold paper cranes and we both spout random thoughts at each other regarding work and love and everything.
"You probably look like you're the bartender's girlfriend," my friend Allison decided.
She's right, and Tyson agrees. Which is great because it means creepy people don't approach me.
Tyson thinks it's something else that keeps them away.
"You're like... the bar freak. The crazy girl. The guy that sits in the corner just watching everyone."
Gee, thanks Tyson.
He's right though. You should have seen me last thursday - surrounded by paper cranes and glasses of water, eating a huge turkey and sourkraut sandwich. I was definitely the... "bar freak".
Oh, but wait? What was it that happened that night, Tyson? Was that the night the adoreable archeologist challenged me to a game of pool, and then a game of darts, and then a game of exchanging phone numbers, and then a game of kissing me good and hard by my car?
OH LOOK AT THAT TYSON! THE BAR FREAK WINS AGAIN!
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