The 100 Girls, 100 Days Project

Age: 23

Hair: Brunette

Heigh: 5’5ish

Method: On The Rocks

Advancement: One For the Road

I was in a weird mood last night. I had a tough day at work, had a tougher day with some family stuff, and have been having trouble sleeping…so I did something that I do extremely rarely. I went to a bar by myself and had a few drinks. I’ve bartended before, so I can attest that a lot of people do this on occasion. It isn’t always as sad and cliché as you see on TV, sometimes you just want to get out of your head, and sitting around your apartment is the last thing on this earth that you’d ever want to do. I will say that doing it makes me feel so incredibly old.

This bar is extremely close to my place, so I pop in once in a while and genuinely know all 3 of their bartenders. I walked in and ordered a scotch on the rocks. That is my go to self-loathing drink. Melissa fills it to the brim, kindly going against policy. I politely smiled and thanked her. I don’t know if it was pity or fondness, and neither would surprise me. She got another glass out, and poured some for herself.  I mentioned how none of the places I ever bartended would ever let me do that, and how lucky she was. Before I knew it she started telling me her life story. I made a joke how I was the one who was supposed to be doing that since I was drinking alone on a Monday. She fired back with how I wasn’t alone, as she downed the rest of her glass. We bonded over shitty relationships, shitty days, and lots of scotch.

Eventually, she told me she was kicking me out. Like I said, I was having trouble sleeping so I took a longer than necessary walk to get a pack of cigarettes, something I only really do when I’m drunk and in this kind of mood. On my walk back, I bumped into her locking the door. She just shook her head at me.

You reek of scotch

That’s all your fault.

Remind me to cut you off after one drink.

That might effect my tipping.

You’re not a very good tipper anyway.

And in fifteen minutes we were on my couch wearing nothing but the scotch on our breath. I didn’t get to christen my pack of cigarettes until the next day when I woke up alone on my couch, with a hangover.