Living The Dream, Obvs...

So, things have started to get pretty real around these parts lately, which is why I haven't written in weeks. Sorry about that. It just is what it is. I bet you're wondering where I've been, right? Of course you are. I bet it just keeps you up at night, doesn't it? No? Bueller?

Fine, but I'm going to tell you anyway. I have been bartending (or as I like to think of it, "bizartending"). A whole bunch. Which means I now do even more hanging out in bars than I did previously. Which is equal parts distressing and awesome. The distressing part is that bartending has made me come to realize that I'm functionally retarded sometimes. You see, when I say "bartending" I mean that I can serve you a nice cold beer or make you something consisting of no more than two ingredients. If you ask me for anything more complex than a gin and tonic, I retreat into my shell of panicked stuttering and skulk away for ten minutes to consult the Mixologist App on my iPhone. And then I still fuck it up like 9 times out of 9. But we're learning, and that's what's important, yes? Shut your face and drink your liquor, a-thank you very much.

I know what you're thinking. I used to be one of those smug, overeducated assholes with a "future" and "pants without holes in them" (as they say). It seems that I've entered my rebellious stage later in life. Whilst my peers are working normal hours, planning their weddings, and gestating their fetuses (fetii...?), I can be found serving liquor while wearing jean shorts and a pushup bra. And, yes, my job is way more fun than yours and I don't have to wait til 5 o'clock every day to drown my sorrows should the need arise, but you probably make a lot more money than I do and you probably don't have to dress like Daisy Duke to do it. Well, you can keep your dignity and financial stability, friend. I'll take booze and creepy Mexicans offering me $200 for "services" any day. Ugh. This post hurts, kind of.

Another plus of this particular gig is that Mommy Dearest (or "Smother", as she has come to be known around the "office") absolutely gets her panties all up in a twist about me hanging out in bars all the time. Because evidently I'm still 15. Also, aren't we just loving the fact that she refers to my JOB as "hanging out" in a bar?! I know I am. Except it's killing my soul one tiny, tiny piece at a time.

Ok, this post needs to end because it's stressing me out and it may or may not be giving me a mild arrhythmia. Anyway, that's basically what's up these days. I just haven't had the energy to be snarky and self-involved (the two highest-prized qualities of great bloggers the world over, incidentally), but I promise I will write again as soon as I have the time or something ludicrous happens to me. In the mean time, you can all find me at the Rendon Inn, 4501 Eve Street. If you visit, I will bartend your face off. Then you shall tip me. I'm told that's how this works. KTHANKS!

P.S. The photo above is a picture of something I absolutely CAN NOT do. Because I'm not Tom Cruise in Cocktail and because I suck at life. Seriously, why did they not teach me how to do THAT in school?! Gah.