Mondays

I sit here on my bar stool at my bar on a Monday night. The neon signs flood the room giving a quaint ambiance of comfort. The tip of my smoke burns red as I inhale the sweet slow death. The plastic that is my glass is cold to the touch, the contents of my beverage cold to the lips. Sweet spirits take over my body, the smooth roll as the alcohol takes hold washes over me. The typical bar banter rings in my ears. You have the stereo-typical drunk slumping in the corner after ten to many drinks; the bar girls squealing high pitched call of joy at the end of the bar; and the bartender hates his life and is watching his dream wash by.

This is the life of a bar.