Bars weren't usually my thing. There was never a specific establishment that I frequented enough that the barkeep knew my "regular" order, and had it ready by the time I had assumed the position with my head held up on my hand, elbow on the bar, and shoulders slumped. That was typically reserved for my own countertop at my own kitchen table. There, the precise bottle filled with the precise liquor I desired was at the ready, served by my own hands. Unfortunately, the Monday I had had led me away from my own kitchen and to a place where all I had to do was consume and consequently put myself at the mercy of the bartender and the other patrons.

I found a seat towards the end of the bar, enough that attention might be paid but I wouldn't arouse too much interest, or potential conversation. Truth be told, sometimes extraneous conversation was nice, but I had absolutely no desire for "what's your name, what's your sign, what's your number, hey ... guess what, I'm already naked!" kind of conversation. It felt dull, monotonous, and lifeless. There had been a little too much lifelessness as of late, and I wasn't about to indulge publicly.

"Dead Bastard, please." The woman stared at me for a moment, which elicited a sharp exhale on my part, and a brief roll of my eyes. Wasn't this supposed to be one of the best bars around? She blinked at me, awaiting an answer I wasn't 100% positive I wanted to give. She squirmed under the heavy stare I'd given her, before breaking her gaze. I couldn't help the very brief smile that only a fly on the wall would have caught when she looked away, clearly rending me victorious. "A shot of brandy, a shot of bourbon, a shot of gin, and a shot of rum, with lime juice and ginger ale," I explained, unfortunately punctuating with an exasperated, "please."

I like a strong drink, I really do. Usually, I tend towards my liquor straight up, but somehow tonight was different. I had an almost desire to get drunk, to feel some form of intoxication in order to get away from the mundane. From the day to day, undisturbed schedule of my life at the moment. When had freedom become scarce? Had it become a commodity that I was no longer able to afford? Responsibility felt like a cage, housing a creature I wasn't sure I wanted to let out. Sometimes I felt control, and other times? I felt like there were claws and talons writhing beneath my skin, awaiting the perfect execution. Although human, sometimes I felt less than such, laced with a kind of darkness that you see in the life time movies where you can guess the endings, and while they're predictable, they still make you uncomfortable that that kind of disturbance can truly exist. I was sure that several of those disturbances lived right under my surface, oozing out of my pores as the sky turned black every evening.

If you could read my thoughts, you would think I read death-infused poetry. But then again, maybe it was the way my experiences had turned into internal prose, documenting the tribulations I had endured be it on the blood red soil of my original home, or suffocating between the four walls I had been thrust into on American soil. I couldn't tell you.

The drink arrived, and I had to hesitate before drinking any more than a sip at a time. It wasn't good, and as I drummed my fingers on the countertop, I had to all but pull the emergency brake on my mouth before I said something that would get me removed from the establishment.

See? Reins, boundaries, and responsibilities. Better off an outlaw with a trigger finger than bound by rope with no knife.