Olives and Ice and Everything Nice

Sometimes, the words I’ve already written describe it best.

Dimples

There’s too much tonic in this gin for this kind of day.

Sincerely,

Your Drunk Bartender.

Ordinarily, that may not be true, but today? After this week? I’m wondering just how many manzanilla olives constitutes a meal.

It has become exceedingly hard to convince myself of my job path’s importance. Let’s face it, I make my living off of other people’s intoxication. It’s not exactly Nobel worthy stuff here, folks. I use my mascaraed lashes and uneven dimples as tools for extra tips, and a lot of times, most times, it works.

Bartending isn’t anywhere nearly as important as, say, Brain Surgeon, or Astronaut, or Fireman, or any of those childhood dreams. No child looks at their parents and says, “I want to get people drunk and stupid when I grow up!” Or, maybe they do. If so, I would love to meet that child. They’re probably pretty damn cool.

It isn’t…

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