I adore the anonymity of a dark bar.   There is significant comfort found in their high-proof nonconformity. No emotional quarter is asked. And none is given—leave that fucking baggage at the door, friend. Because if the place is sufficiently dive enough, conversation rarely extends beyond monosyllabic sentences grunted across the bar.  Nobody talks. Or fucks with you. Unless you’re being an obnoxious drunk. That’ll get you thrown out. Or your ass kicked. There’s just no tolerance for that kind of amateur shit. At least not at three o’clock on another under-employed Friday afternoon. No one cares if you are stumbling in to join the other professional flies on maybe the worst day of your life. They frankly don’t give a shit about you. Even better, you …

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