I’m a liability
Last night, my brother takes me to some ridiculously weak college bar, a bar in a shopping center called, Peabody’s. They card you at the door, security all around, kids shooting darts and drinking beer, the exact opposite of anywhere I usually go. I like dive bars, goth clubs, dark places with character.
So, we’re at this lame bar, my brother and his friends, me with my black nail-polish, seventeen tattoos, Nirvana’s I Hate Myself and Want to Die bouncing around in my head, when security comes over and says that we have to go to the front and speak to the manager. Apparently, after being there for about two mind-numbingly dull hours, they’ve decided, the manager and his staff, that I’m a “liability” and they’d like us to leave. My brother, who’s quite angry, tells the guy he’s being ridiculous. I’m giddy because this is the only interesting thing that’s happened all evening. The manager then softens a little, says that I need to leave for my own safety because there are lots of drunk people around who could fall on me. He then decides that I could stay if I specifically say that I want to stay, to which I reply via the alphabet, “I-s-u-r-e-a-s-f-u-c-k-d-o-n-t-w-a-n-t-t-o-s-t-a-y.” The manager agrees, we leave.
I think I’ll just stick to my “dark” places, places that suit me. People are friendlier in the dark.
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