How do you stake claim to a bar stool? I want this seat to remain mine, even after my many trips to the drunk-infested restroom during the night. I can’t piss on it like a cat might do, although that’d solve the gritty bathroom and the missing barstool issues both at the same time. Maybe I should consider it.

I need more to drink. My glass shimmers tauntingly in front of my face, as if that last drip of booze is winking back at me from a stage I am being held back from. I’ll drink you, drop. I swear it! I grab the glass and tip it back. I extend my tongue as if I’m stranded on an island with no water and no rain. I watch the drip slip to the bottom of the lip of the glass and wish it would drop on the tip of my hypothetical catcher’s mit.

I’m still waiting. I adjust my visual standpoint from the drop to the atmosphere I reside in. People are staring. I lose focus for a moment, concerned that my ego just pissed itself on the bar stool I wish to claim. My tongue retracts and as I look back to sit my glass down I witness the drop quiver and leap from the edge of the prison glass. The drop careens downward ever so swiftly and splashs a ring of triumph onto the counter in front of me. I whimper.

The bartender suddenly wipes clean the smiling glint from the counter and I whimper even more, as I’d started to bond slightly with that miniscule bit of alcoholic nectar. Then I remember that I need another drink and proceed to kick thoughts of my new droplet friend from my mind. I hand the bartender my glass and demand a Boilermaker, STAT. I can bark demands because he wants my money, so I pretend to have authority over him and her and that waitress cocktail bitch flirting with a group of random dudes who all look the same. I like to pretend. I pretend to piss on my bar stool in an effort to cover up the stake to claim that my ego let loose beneath me. I don’t really piss.

I realize the similarity between a cocktail waitress and a prostitute. This comparison catches me off guard and I fall deep into thought over the newfound issue. A cocktail girl entices a troubled man into giving her money simply because she’s attractive. The more she entices him, the more he drinks, and the more money he forks over onto her copper platter (because copper is pretty pricey these days). If he digs deep enough into his pocket, she might wind up going home with him. Strictly for business, of course. To create a client base. Very similar to a hooker, I’d say.