Never Fall In Love With A Bartender:


It’s been a rather depressing last few days in terms of the male front. In comparison to many people, I think I have good luck. That being said, I’m not taking into consideration events such as sewing through my finger on a sewing machine, breaking my thumb by getting it slammed in a door, my ear piercing getting infected, breaking my sister’s arm by accidentally knocking her off a bed, needing 15 stitches from falling off of a stack-stool onto the metal corner of a toy chest, being cyber-stalked by the married 56 year old man I lived with last summer, having 18 cavities after getting my braces taken off, or making out with a gay guy during last year’s XXX-Mas party. Other than these minor things… I’m lucky?

When it comes to men, I have thus far been dealt a pretty shitty set of cards. Don’t get me wrong, I have dated some amazing guys in my years (Aging myself much?). I’ve also had to deal with some rotten apples. I’ve been cheated on, lied to, played, used for my things, and have even been threatened to have the cops called on me for no reason! Some people are psychopaths… but then, if many of the people I’ve dated end up being psychopaths, should I instead be looking at myself to see the root of the problem? I don’t think so. I feel as if I’m a fairly down to earth girl that’s pretty easy to get along with. I mean, I’ve been told I’m fun, and beautiful, so I’d like to also think those things are true. 

Anyways, my bad luck with boys has followed me to my new home in New York. Who said you could tag along in my suitcase?!  I already talked about my Maritime crush, and how he’s probably sailing off the coast of Dublin by now. Woe is me! It doesn’t stop there though. Dani and I decided that we needed to stop being babies and go back to the bar where we had become friendly with the bartenders. She was a little upset because she Facebook-stalked her guy and he had a serious girlfriend. That being said, we mostly returned to the bar to get my hot bartender’s digits.

The bartenders seemed to be completely ignoring us, and this time they started us a tab. We were shocked considering the copious amounts of free alcohol they had given us last time. We only had two drinks each and decided that it was time to leave. I walked out the door saying to the bouncer, “Never fall in love with a bartender.” Another man heard me and said, “Who, Joel?” I told him yes and he said, “I love that guy. His wife is really cool too!” I couldn’t believe how flirtatious he was despite being married and the man outside said something along the lines of, “So? He’d be down to hook up. Get back in there!” I could never.

Just when you thought my life was rough (lol) here comes the doozy: Mr. 8B is 37 years old! Age isn’t a huge deal, unless it’s excessive, which that IS. He was almost 20 when I was born! We’re all generally in such different phases of our lives, even more so when there is a substantial age gap. My question is… Why is this Godly human being 37, still single, and living in my not-so-incredible apartment building? Something must be terribly wrong. My friends said that I should go for it and “experience an older man.” They think it’d be fun, that he would be very mature, and that I could learn a thing or two from him. I’m not marrying the guy! But, I think I would just feel dirty, not to mention that my mother would go into cardiac arrest. 


Alena Netia Horowitz

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