How Crying Alone at a Mexican Bar is About to Transform My Life.

Embarrassing, right?

Author photo at restaurant

I’m sitting at the bar again. I’ve been finding myself here lately. If I’m not here, I’m chasing someone that could care less if I was dead or alive. But when she needs me, I’m breaking my neck to get to her.

It’s Bengal Sunday, a day where I usually hang with friends or family. Now it is a day of, fuck; I don’t know what.

I know she’s with the new clueless wonder feeding him the same bullshit she fed me.

I went out last night to try and run from my feelings. It didn’t work again. And I ended up emailing the same asshole that sent me in this tailspin, to begin with. She doesn’t fucking care. I know it, and so do my close friends and family.

She brought tears in me that the seven-year-old boy could never shed, but now at 46, they are flowing as I sit in a public place hating every sip of my beer.

When does the misery end? Fábio dos Santos Franco, one of my followers, but I can’t explain in words. And if you follow my writings, I’m never at a loss for words. Here is what he said:

After reading so many of your articles, I don't recognize you on this one. It almost feels like you have a gun…