booktowrite

Sometimes you have to leave the house. Sometimes, when the knives and razors and pills and bottles are calling your name, you have to leave the house. Sometimes you do silly things like come to the bar and sit alone drinking beer in the presence of a woman you love from afar and it probably does nothing other than make you look like an idiotic, lonely fool. Sometimes you're already drunk and your bicycle, although dangerous, is the only means of transport and you push yourself to go out and blow lots of money and to drink a lot more because the alternative is a lonely death of a broken heart or something colder. Sometimes as you're sitting in the bar, drinking, alone, you start to think that you may throw up and you almost cease to care.
There is a guy in the bar telling the staff it is his birthday... he keeps telling them its his birthday... he's telling them he plays guitar... he keeps repeating that he'd rather live in Spain. I sense the bar lady's pain. No one cares. We all have a boring story.