I work at this place now. It's a mess, a story for another time. I must be a writer somewhere deep down in my soul because I keep finding myself in these fucked-up situations that I can only deal with through "creative distance" otherwise my head would fucking explode.
My clientele is a buch of faux-sophisticated new money-types who can't help but order the most debased shit from me with varying degrees of unearned-ostentation.
On the weekends, there is a cover band, and they dance. I am no ageist, but there is something ludicrous, still. A bunch of parochial aspiring-WASP uneducated fucks drinking crappy, sugary drinks while dancing badly to Earth, Wind and Fire.
What are they worth?
A good line, sadly unusable in most contexts:
"A dance floor full of failed skincare regimens."
An evocative image only to anyone who has ever been there, I guess.
Oh well.
I still love you, even if you didn't want me to. Maybe especially because. Sadly. Or not.
