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Friday, May 17, 2024
Victoria encounters a pathetic goon, not stress relief

Victoria Statz

Victoria encounters a pathetic goon, not stress relief

Ice cream? Nah. Organize my room? Yeah, right. 30-minute rant to some loving family member? They're all asleep by nine. And at midnight, who wants to try and use any of these productive and un-self-destructive behaviors for stress-release? Not I. It had been one of those shitty study days and the only feasible remedy was a delicious pint of brew—or so I thought.

I began to think as I gathered my belongings in preparation for leaving the library: ""I'd prefer to just buy some beer and sit at home, by myself, maybe watch ""Kill Bill"" volumes one AND two. Oh, that's right—it's past nine.""

""Okay, what bar on a Wednesday night might be good for someone who wants to be left alone with their alcohol and is somewhat close to my house. Well... Umm… Paul's Club has a fucking tree so maybe that equates to relaxation time with nature. I'll go sulk somewhere in the darkness behind it.""

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I walk in and survey the interior for the most secluded-looking spot, finally opting to sit at the bar beside that tree. The look on my face, which I imagine closely resembled ""stink-eye,"" kept the bartender's attempts at conversation hovering around my preferred level: infrequent.

I get my beer and take a moment to ponder the obvious awkwardness of the situation, namely, me sitting at a bar alone. I don't get much more than a moment though, because my carefully-planned antisocial beer time was about to be ruined by some tool in a button-up.

As I told you, I looked far from inviting. Stupid drunks. He tries to make some slick, non-committal observations about the surroundings. Thing is, he's so sloshed that the half-formed words won't fully leave his mouth. For some reason my mind thinks his speech resembles some sort of disturbing audio manifestation of what might be uttered from those cancer-plagued ""tongue and gums destroyed by chewing tobacco"" mouths on television PSAs.

I had no idea what the hell he wanted to say, so I preemptively informed him, ""It's been a long day. I'm here to drink this ONE beer and leave."" In my head I thought, ""What a fucking loser. I should have known it's impossible for drunks to leave other people alone. I should have gone directly home and cuddled with some hot chocolate.""

I immediately transitioned from sips to large swigs.

My declaration didn't hinder his idiocy in the least. For the five minutes that followed, he mumbled some shit about LaCrosse, State Street, ""you're cute,"" etc., while I pounded my beer. I looked at him at few times, smirking incredulously with amusement and annoyance. It only served to amplify his brutalization of the English language, poor fuck.

Upon finishing my beer, I grabbed my jacket and threw it on. Apparently, misinterpreting the cause of my abruptness, he dropped this last-ditch line: ""You're just scared.""

Two comments: Scared? Really? He was obviously impotent in so many ways that even my biceps, which are the antithesis of Popeye's, could have wreaked havoc on several of his necessary bodily systems. Second, why are there some men who think attempts at belittling a female's mental capacity through idle taunts will somehow manipulate them into a position of control and, her, into their bed?

Undoubtedly his inability to communicate and my utter indifference to his existence had deemed me as the person in ""power."" After flinging a look of pure disgust at the incompetent tool, I left.

I was feeling slightly belligerent, and thoroughly regretting my decision to attempt solitude at a bar. I mean, why should any girl who goes out for a drink alone think she has the right to remain unbothered, right? Beforehand, I had pictured myself as one of those dive-bar regulars: the old men with bleary eyes and scruffy faces slouching alone and unharassed at the end of the bar, near the stacks of freshly washed glasses and out of the way. Weird, yes, but darn it! Reality didn't measure up.

Outside though, away from beer breath and blundering drunks, I felt somewhat better. Walking to my bike, I unlocked it and tossed the lock into my bag. I was just fitting my left foot into its toeclip when I heard uneven, rapid footsteps coming toward me. I looked up and saw that slovenly mess lurching down the sidewalk. There he was running out after me. But before he could sally forth some unintelligible lame-duck observation about how cold it was, I was speedily on the way toward my warm and peaceful apartment. And anyway, there was the small chance some long-forgotten chocolate ice cream still occupied my freezer.


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