Oh, fuck you anyway.

I understand that you amuse yourself but you don't amuse me. Therefore, I am fisting you with a bag of thumbtacks. She has a cute face that turns quickly to horror and there is a guy on the toilet that has fallen asleep amid drunken turding. This guy keeps walking into the bar, same bar, same order, same rejection, five hours straight, waiting for him to have a stroke or get hauled away. She keeps adjusting her tampon, or pad, I never get it right, but with a bloody hand she digs into the napkin caddy and shoves a wad in between her legs. I'm pouring a vanilla watermelon martini and try to smile to the guest who ordered it but now she's looking a little "off". I'm reading the paper and suddenly I get the urge to eat it, choke and die. I don't but I tear a little corner off and suck on the pulp. Ugh, I'd throw up before I died choking on these lies. But it's like a tab of acid. The guys can't seem to wear hats without cocking them to an absurd angle that makes me turn my head but my haymaker still lands straight. No straight hat, no service, face-punch. The glassy eyes and the bitches that still love them...the fist pumpers, the ordered from the menu haircuts, the exploitation of being handed a "no challenge" card. I probably don't look much better. I've got a 36 ounce stein of Miller Lite and a basket of chicken wings in front of me and I want to kill but someone might have a target on my back and so we're all misunderstood and the bullet travels.