raising the bar

y’all know me. y’all know i don’t drink. so, who the fuck would hire me to serve alcoholic beverages? gringo hostel owners. that’s who.

this is the first job i’ve ever had (college work study not included) where i am not really responsible for anyone’s well-being. feels good; freeing. i’m paid in room and board. the room part lasted about three days. not for me. instead, i bartered for more free food. best of all: FREE non-bottled water. water, people! also free is the lessons i’ve learned about myself and the world around me.

you know you’re a bad bartender if…

– you’re always turning the music down.

– your o.c.d. compels you to clean up glasses and beers before people are done with them.

– you can’t remember anyone’s name.

– you can’t remember what anyone likes to drink.

– you refrain from socializing with customers for more than 10 minutes.

– you don’t actually know how to make any drinks.

– you’re constantly cleaning around people and making them move their arms.

– you drop hints about how everyone should go to bed soon.

– last call is about 30-45 minutes prior to closing.

– you refuse to give straws.

– you can’t recommend any drinks.

– you’re ridiculously bad at simple math and regularly give wrong change.

– it takes you a really long time to give wrong change.

– you’re a stickler for rules.

– you won’t drink with the customers.

– when girls get on the bar to dance you envision ceiling fan concussions and make them get down.

– you’re me.


About trying not to touch anything

living in a space where i am half packed, or half unpacked, depending on how you look at it; going somewhere else; wanting to write about my misadventures on a planet i don't feel like i should be on

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