Drunken Thoughts, Liquor, & Women

Drunken Thoughts, Liquor, & Women

Hey, everyone! I have this awesome friend, Reggie E., who happens to also be a writer. He wrote a small piece the other night that I fell in love with and decided to write a reply to. So I’m posting our little collab for you  guys to check out. Hope you like it!!

Part 1 by Reggie:

This drink is not as strong as it should be. Either that or these lights aren’t as strong as I would want them to be. Maybe i shouldn’t be looking to be impressed by women in clubs anyway, right? I should be home watching sports center because, after all, it is the only thing that i can be sure wouldnever leave me high and dry like SHE did. Excuse me if i come off as bitter, but I just am. As I sit here alone in this nightclub, thinking about the night she left me and never came back, it just makes me wonder what did i do wrong? I have a great paying job, I cook pretty well (thanks to Google), and my sense of humor is pretty top notch. She said she couldn’t deal with my sarcasm anymore and that I’m an insensitive prick. Okay, maybe that’s true, but if she was dealing with it for the last 6 years, what’s another 60, right? You see, i invested way too much into this girl, and when i told her that, I got a slap to the face because she said i was referring to her as property. But to a certain extent, she kind of was. I’m an asshole and no one knows this better than me. But maybe it’s the liquor talking. Which reminds me; Bartender! Keep it coming. At almost the same time i slam down my empty glass, a new piece of eye candy picks a seat right next to me. Now she knows how to work the lighting in this place. Radiant beauty with the longest legs I’ve ever seen. Lips as full as could be. “Can I buy you a drink?” is what she says. To whom she’s speaking to in her soft, floetic voice is beyond me, but I’m listening to every word. “YOU sir, the depressed one. Can i buy you a drink?” I glance over to find her glaring right at me. “It depends” i said. She responds with a sexually driven “On what?” I snap back with, “It depends on if you’re a bitch or not.” The bartender looks at me like I just blew it but I could care less. Surprisingly, she seems intrigued by my rudeness and attempts to make more conversation. Typical.

Part 2 by ME:

This drink is not as strong as it should be. But hell, I reached my limit two rum and cokes back, so I suppose it’s for the best. I shouldn’t be here, anyway, in this bar, drowning my sorrows in glass after glass of cheap alcohol that tastes a little too much like acid. Yes, I’m getting drunker with every sip, but my thoughts are still on HIM. That insensitive prick. All I want from him, and from our six years together, is a little more than a witty comeback. In the beginning, it was all romance and sweet nothings. And then slowly but surely the rapture faded and the nonchalance and dry humored jokes and endless sarcasm set in. Do you know what he had the nerve to say to me when I broke it off? He invested too much in me. Like if I’m just property. Just the thought sends the familiar heat of frustration rushing through and I down the rest of my drink. The bartender has another one in front of me in a flash: Good boy. I get through half of it before someone occupies the seat beside me. I briefly steal a glance at the man, who not so briefly, and not nearly as discreetly, looks back at me. With a smirk and a head nod, he says, “Hey. Can I get you a refill?” I look down at my watered down glass, then back up at him and reply, “Well, I don’t know. It depends.” Intrigued, he leans in a little closer and asks, “On what?” I think back to the night I met him, the insensitive prick. It was much like this night, me alone in a bar, not a very happy camper. He’d approached me that night, and unlike any other man in the place, he wasn’t offering drinks, but jokes instead. By the end of the night I wasn’t drunk, but I’d laughed until my stomach hurt. Ironic, huh? “Depends on what?” the man presses. Blinking away the distant memories, I say, “It depends on if you know any jokes.” He raises an eyebrow. “Jokes? Umm, sure. If that’s what you’re into.” Actually, right now, it’s the opposite of what I’m into, but I don’t bother saying so. Instead, I sit here and listen to him give me every reason the chicken crossed the road, blissfully unaware of how much of a chance he doesn’t have with me. Ugh. Typical.

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