Bar bathing

I have a weakness for certain members of the opposite sex and, let’s not beat around the bush, some members of the same sex too. These certain/some members all have one thing in common, and that is they work in bars.

Before the Chick Fil A brigade comes down on me I would like to point out my crush on the man-side of things is one of respect borne out of mutual understanding of beer, being a lumberjack, football and fucking fighting. Not because I want to put my winkie in them.

But the girl side? Well, I have been in love with approximately 17 female bar staff over the years, and that’s just off the top of my head. Those I’ve forgotten must push the number into the hundreds – nay – thousands. Because it happens every. Stinking. Time.

But why? Girls I wouldn’t think to objectify twice when walking past me in the street become these beacons of hope for a greater tomorrow; shining examples of everything that is right with the world and bringers of hope to a jaded old hack like myself. They somehow, some way, make life worth living.

Every. Stinking. Time.

I have had relationships with them, flings with them, danced for them in front of other paying customers, made bad jokes about how I look like Hitler to them, offended them, spilled drinks on them, had drinks spilled on me by them, punched them (this is a lie), danced a bit more for them, and I am still utterly enamoured by them.

So, whatever it is you do, barmaids – keep on doing it. And I’ll keep on being obsessed in a totally-non-stalkerish-or-creepy way.

Wait, I’ve just figured it out. They sell me booze. I like booze. I associate the pleasantness and escape that comes with being drunk with the service they offer me as gatekeepers to liquor, hence I have an overinflated feeling of positivity about the people who work in bars, both male and female.

Shit, thought I was getting romantic then. Turns out I just like getting pissed. Sorry folks.


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