It was a monday night at the bar, near the end of my time with Previous Employer.  At this point, getting fired seemed like a blessing.  I mean just think what you can do with that severance package.  Two months of unemployed bliss while I explore the full extent of irresponsibility.  Unless there isn't a severance package.  Hmm... that would suck.  But luckily that diamond ring that I was saving for has turned into a nice cushy What If I Get Too Fucked Up To Maintain A Job fund.  No, I'll show up to work hungover and I dare you to fire me.  I dare you.  I've been through so much worse.

But it was a monday night at the bar.  And she was sitting next to me.  Even as the drunk who spends his nights at the bar, I still have to be a little apprehensive.  I mean, I know why I'm the drunk at the bar on a monday night, but what's your story.  Nevertheless, she starts one of those conversations.  Awful, uncomfortable conversations.  What do you do she asks.  "Out of work rodeo clown," I answer.  She laughs, but not in that "i get the joke laugh," no it's more serious than that.  It's that laugh where they're willing to humor you even though you've said something inappropriate.  And that's scary.  Why don't you find me weird.

And she continues.  She tells me about her job working for non-profit X saving the world from Y, and I wonder, who gives a fucking shit.  Congratulations for having a job that makes absofuckinglutely no difference in the world.  You're an administrative assistant for the most powerful douchebag in DC.  You deserve a bagel.  No wonder you're at a bar skimming for drunks on a Monday night.

But she continues.  Her days at that Ivy league school were hard, but she still found time to have fun.  One time at spring break Cancun, paid for by daddy, she entered a wet tshirt contest.  She lost, but only because she wasn't willing to take her bottom off.  She has morals, you know.  But she had fun anyway.  A week of antibiotics and she was back to normal. 

I stare ahead at the bottles of liquor hoping to god she'll become preoccupied with someone else. No luck, the bar's empty.  She continues.  "So where do you live?"  Columbia Heights, I answer, and watch the pure confusion wash over her face.  "My friend lives in Cleveland Park," she says.  I start to taste the bile in the back of my throat.  I begin to question whether this girl even knows where she is.

"You're a nice guy... most guys would be hitting on me right now," she says.  I think of how much I would have to drink to be at that state.  Coors would go broke.  "Why are you here alone," I ask out of genuine curiosity.  "My friends are lame, they already went home."  Fair enough.  I spend a lot of time alone at bar.  But then again, I don't hit on random drunk losers at the bar.  "So why are you still out," I ask.  "Because I still want to have fun."  Totally legitimate answer, I think, as long as having fun doesn't involve going home with random drunks you met at the bar at 2am.  Sympathy rising. 

I paid my tab and excused myself.  I went  home alone but thankful that I'm not you.  And that I've never dated a girl like you.  Good luck.  Seriously girl, good luck.