You may wonder why “bar people” are my tribe members today. Well, first of all, bartenders don’t care if I sit here at happy hour and get cheap beer and pull out my computer and my water bottle and write for hours. I’m in the Whitaker at a bar. They prefer me. I’m clearly not here to fuck shit up, I have money to buy drinks, I’m here to work.
Drunk people come by now and then to ask me questions. There was actually a hilarious moment-skinny and white haired Matt the painter, about 55, tried to make the moves on me. He was asking me if I was working on my dissertation. (THANK GOD I’M NOT.) I said, “no, I’m working on my consulting/coaching business, I’m a teacher.” Unfortunately this made him more interested. I said I’m a teacher. He said he’s a painter. I said, “hey Matt, I painted my house today.” I pulled out my phone and showed him all the shit I’m doing.
He was actually professionally impressed, because he kinda stepped back and then said, “YOU did this?” (I’m not currently wearing my painting clothes like he was. I showered and put on eyeliner and clean clothes.)
And then he stopped bothering me.
That was satisfying.
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