Does my wish want to be with him? You know what I’m wishin’. He’s lost
the sexy red jacket and this, I thought, might be a nice way to rediscover
empathy. I have only one guy (there’s already too many males). Anyway,
what’s it like to be a bartender? A 30 Year Reverse? Why do I come here?
Is it just the hopped up Cosmos? Logic says perhaps; I do pay full price
for them here. It’s certainly not for the bartender, though. God, I hope
it’s not for the bartender. . . . C B S. I mean, generally, it’s just a fuckin’
sports bar, so this is surely just BS. Right? Speaking of holy shit, that man
has my beard and is wearing my pants! Later, as I’m having a cosmopolitan
at the Midnight Sun, which is the worst (both the bar and the cosmopolitan).
Now I’m drinking a Calistoga from Jerry at Badlands after talking to the
yahoo. And I’ve just been informed I never knew him. Of all the people
to look me in the eye and tell me I just do not get it! As usual, he’d been
reading cinderblock-sized books about war. Oh, and Joe called as I was
initially walking from The Bar to Badlands (the concept: getting a little wild;
and I know, I know. . . .). I just wanted to do something. I knew he was
gonna wisecrack about me constantly asking for a 25th hour. What he says
is, “I’d so love a 25th hour!” Now it’s me wondering who I am, pacing
around like a stick of dynamite mumbling Whose flesh? Whose bones?
Which is exactly what wishes get me.
