A process of sorts

eight months and counting.

i still wander in the same old bar with the same old friends. dancing to rihanna and duffy or madonna. drinking a bottle of my usual san miguel superdry and a lemon wedge while i scan and scrutinize the usual crowd, and then you spot a fresh face, you glance and drink a bit and you glance again to check if he's noticed you but he's not, so you move on to the next one, and another, until someone reciprocates.

the night turns into a few intense hours, thanks to that over-sized bluefrog, spatial and visual impairment becomes an excuse to be frisky and flirty, but the novelty of the night's adventure easily wears off, you hear the last call for alcohol and in a few minutes the lights are turned on, the washed out faces come to life and you realize it's all the more hopeless that way. some nights are lucky, you get to meet, greet and drink while most are just havin' laughs and drinks with friends.

i've subjected myself to this. a selection, collection and elimination process of sorts.

it's like being put on a conveyor belt and have machines poking at you for quality control. It's a dissection of character, intellectual content, wit, financial stability and fair market value all in the hopes of finally connecting and finding what pacifies that certain longing or even just a fleeting fancy.

i asked a friend. are we getting old or is it because we're mainstay?

i think it's because we're mainstay, he answered.

but i think it's a little bit of both.

so, it's been eight months and i'm a little weary and tired. the pessimist in me is slowly creeping out. the scene is fast becoming old and almost vintage to point.

i ask myself yet again, why i come to this bar regularly.