I remember my alterior motives and regain sense of my surroundings. New folks sit next to me. I don’t like them either. I swig my wonderful whiskey/beer concoction effortlessly and wonder if there’s really even whiskey in it at all. Next time I’ll watch that slave pour that slave drink and insure that he/she provides accordingly. I decide that this new objective is fairly important to my state-of-mind and decide to finish my drink in one swift gulp. As I finish, I realize that there is whiskey after all, and that the bitter Crown Royal had simply settled to the bottom of my glass as I pondered the meaning of prostitution. Or pissing. Whichever.

I hiccup as the warm fluid flows downward with gravity into my chest cavity. I believe I am glowing. I look down to check. Unfortunately I’m not glowing. I realize then that my chin had actually hit my chest quicker than my eyes had seen me not glowing. I must be drunk. Not drunk enough, of course. Drunk enough equals me conversing with the slaver bartenders as if they are friends. Drunk enough equals me thinking less about bar stools and more about relieving my bladder. Drunk enough equals actually considering pissing in the seat I reside in. Too drunk equals me flirting with the prostitutes prowling the bar, posing as cocktail waitresses. Way too drunk equals me actually taking one home.

I begin to scan for the next available victim. I’m a regular at this routine. In reality, I know all the prostitutes’ names. I hope to see one that I’ve never met before. My hopes wilter and fail when I discover my vision is too blurry to know who I’ve met and who I haven’t. This is the fun part. The fun part occurs when my sight is too blurry to know who I’ve met and who I haven’t. The fun part happens when I can pretend that I have not met a single cocktail prostitute in the entire bar. I’ve reached my end.

I forfeit my seat, forgetting to cash my tab. The bartender slave/friend is used to this and brushes me off his drink order shoulders. I glance back to insure that I haven’t pissed myself while thinking about pissing myself. I haven’t. That’s a good sign. I approach the closest cocktail from the tail end, who is still flirting with a group of blurry identical men. She catches me as I fall forward into her. I hear her mumble my name. I proclaim that she’s breaking the rules of the game. I’m at the “I don’t know you” phase.

She hollers for the bouncer. He’s my roommate. He knows my routine too, so we flow without walking to my car and he drives me home. As I pass out swiftly on my couch, I wonder if I’ll be in the same position tomorrow. The smell of vomit reaches my nose, as a reminder from the alcoholic gods. I will be there tomorrow. It’s my bar stool destiny.