Right now, I’m stuck on true stories.  There’s a picture on the internet that shows the evolution of species and each one has a thought balloon.  Every critter that came before humans is thinking “Eat, survive, reproduce.”  Man is the only one that stops to wonder what it all means.  Unfortunately, that’s where I am at the moment.  Once I let go of reality again, I’m sure I’ll get back to being creative.  For now though, I hope you like hearing about the bar…

I present two stories that are really a thousand stories that are all really just one story.  That makes perfect sense to me, but there is a history of insanity in my family.  Anyway.  Last night, a guy I met a few dozen times came in with his cousin and his girlfriend.  They were celebrating the cousin’s birthday.  Cool.  Last Call rolls around, and they invite me to have a drink with them after I finish my clean-up.  Double cool.

I blaze through my closing stuff and head over to the apartment.  They are doing shots of wine.  You read that right.  I am confused but flexible.  I join them.  The cousin takes a shine to me.  She offers me a cigarette.  I decline but offer to join her on the balcony.  We stand there in the cold, and she smokes.  More shots of wine.  She offers me a cigarette again.  I still don’t smoke.  She hands me a cigarette anyway.  My thought: if movies have taught me anything, she wants me to light it for her.  I do so, and attempt to hand her the lit cigarette.  She has an unlit one in her mouth.  I sigh.  I put mine out.  I switch to water.  I don’t even want to catch a buzz.  She gets trashed.  I put the wine away and try to get her to drink water as well.  The conversation goes in circles.  No, I still don’t smoke.  No, we’re done drinking wine.  Yeah, I understand that you think no one “gets you.”

She calls for a ride, then heads outside at 5AM.  The guy I’m sort of friends with asks that I keep her out of trouble.  I follow.  We sit outside while the sun creeps over the horizon.  I watch people walk dogs in coats and pajama bottoms.  She offers me more cigarettes.  She asks if I need a ride too.  She asks if I live in the building we’re sitting in front of.  She keeps knocking my helmet off of my lap and onto the sidewalk.  She wonders why I won’t let her touch my phone.  Her ride finally comes.  Sweet relief.  I gear up and rocket off into the early morning mist.

Rewind about four days.

A friend of mine is calling, asking if we can hang out after work.  Cool.  Except I have concerns about whether she’ll be sober enough to be a passenger on my bike.  She assures me that she is stone-sober.  Double cool.  I politely decline an offer to hang out with some co-workers.  I blaze through my closing stuff and head to the house she’s at.  She’s been hanging with her friends.  They’re nice guys.  She introduces us.  She grabs her stuff and we head for the door.  I mount my bike and get it started.  I hold it while she climbs on the back.  I tell her to put her feet on the pegs.  She tries to wrap them around my waist.  She succeeds only in pinning my legs.  Yeah, that TOTALLY won’t get us killed…  I tell her to hop off.  She falls off.  Guess it’s a good thing she was wearing my helmet.  I turn my bike off and help her up.  “Let’s go,” she says.  Uh, no.  We go back inside.  I take my helmet off of her.  She introduces me to her friends.  Twelve more times.  Minimum.  She slaps me in the face.  The conversation goes in circles.  We can’t go because you’re too drunk to ride.  No, I’m not staying here.  Actually, I’m not drunk in the slightest.  We are NOT fucking in the other room.  I don’t take advantage of drunk girls.  I gear up to leave.  She tries to come with.  No chance.  I rocket off into the early morning mist.

Like I said before, two stories that are one story that is a thousand.

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