Gone Drinkin'

I have been told that there is a bar in Denton that sells 50 cent wells all day and night on Wednesday. My heart is aflutter at the prospect of going from technically transient to Daddy Fuckin' Warbucks after paying a mere one dollar cover charge. As always, I will bring paper and a pen to and write until I black out and come to in a back alley playing a dangerous game of gay chicken with the regional champ.

Before I go though, I want to note that my habits of bringing paper and pen wherever I go have yeilded surprising results on the bar scene. When I go out with drinking companions I will usually sit at the booth or table or bar by myself and write while my friends will usually go make fools of themselves at pool or darts or in the conquest of some fair bar skag's maidenhood. This does not bother me, I adore writing and I love drinking. But it has occurred to me that every time I go to a bar, sit down with a table full of drinks, and write about whatever crosses my mind, that women (and a few men) will periodically sit down with me and introduce themselves as people who are either interested in what I'm writing, or wanting to make sure that I'm not lonely.

Without fail, a drunken friend always manages to come by and sabotage the conversation with whoever may be sitting there. Sometimes this is a good thing, and sometimes its a VERY FUCKING ANNOYING thing.

Oh, well, my clothes are dry. I'm going to go iron them and set out in Yukon on an adventure into the wonderous waters of intoxicated writing and social interaction. Hopefully my friend will bring my journal from last week's drinking adventure, I had forgotten it at the bar and he had claimed to pick it up and have every single sentient fucking being in the area write "something" in it. I have no doubts that when I get it back the entire thing will be evicerated by pen drawn penises.