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The place was pretty dead. After all it was only 5 o’clock. The happy hour crowd was just starting to trickle in with their pea coats and Bluetooth headsets and the jukebox hadn’t yet been turned up to eleven. After picking my seat at the bar, I ordered a Jack Daniels on the rocks. The bartender was this guy I’d seen there before, I don’t know his name, but the thing about him that stood out is that he always wore the same shirt. Granted I didn’t go there all that often, but every time I did he was wearing the same cowboy shirt with blue and brown stripes and mother of pearl buttons.
God I hate baby-talking to animals, especially to fucking rottweilers. They’re animals not children. I’m not saying we shouldn’t be nice to animals, but don’t treat them like children. That’s just sad. On the walk home that afternoon, I couldn’t quite decide whether I felt exhilarated by my performances or depressed about everything that happened before the debacle. The morning before, I had woken up hopeful about myself with Allison. I had bought a ring that cost me six months worth of work and had planned the perfect proposal.
I decided to make a few more stops before I made my way home, to kill some time. I desperately needed some food and decided to get something new to wear for that night. Eventually I made it home and ran up my stoop while trying to get my mind back on Nicole. I threw my stuff down and plopped into bed. I looked at the clock for some reassurance, but only realized how long I had before dinner. Ugh. I just sat there twiddling my thumbs on the Internet by checking all my accounts. It always amazed me how many passwords I had to remember to find out if people wanted to talk to me.