Hooray, I can breathe today!  It still hurts to sneeze, but one night of making myself sleep on my back (felt weird and caused bizarre dreams; what is my subconscious supposed to learn from going to Portugal with Graham’s ex-girlfriend?) means I can perform the basic action of existence without experiencing crippling pain.

Of course, I also made the brilliant decision to stick my head out of the car window yesterday (shut up, I was checking to see if I was well enough within my parking spot) while I was rolling up the window.  So now I have a cut and swollen lower lip, which doesn’t really hurt or anything, it’s just tedious to have to reassure people that I’m not a battered woman.

I AM NOT A BATTERED WOMAN.

What’s most interesting to me is that all of my recent physical problems – my head injury, my back problem, my busted lip – occurred whilst totally sober.  If the universe is trying to tell me to be drunk more often, it could pick a less painful way of saying it.

Oddly, although I could barely breathe yesterday, I could play horsehoes in the park.  I have an almost savant-like talent for useless games, so naturally, I scored the most points.  We were playing with one of Graham’s friends and his wife.  The wife works for a university, the friend is a bartender.  Well, according to me he’s a bartender.  According to him, he’s a mixologist.

I should mention that he works in the kind of bar I hate.  Graham worked there for awhile, too, and so did a few of our other friends.  It’s the kind of bar where people wear shiny clothes, are okay with the concept of bottle service, and congratulate themselves on being wealthy by spending their money on things to suck up their noses while standing over public toilets.  Sounds awesome, right?  I know.

Anyway, the cocktails at this place are predictably expensive.  They’re good and all, but spending $10 on a drink is a rare occurrence for me, typically reserved for occasions like anniversaries, big huge raises, and…well, that’s pretty much it.  As a bartender, I know all about the markup and choose not to participate only for the sake of my ego.

Apparently, the outrageous prices and asshole clientele have convinced Graham’s friend that he’s no longer a bartender.  He’s a mixologist, and eventually he’s going to make thousands of dollars a day by being a mixologist on TV and the Internet, and someday will be able to tell other people how to be mixologists instead of doing any actual work himself.

Dude.  Quit being such a fucking douchebag.

When you go to work, do you stand behind a bar?  And while you’re standing there, are you servicing the people sitting at it by making drinks, wiping up spills, and generally tending to your area?  Yes?  Okay, then, YOU’RE A BARTENDER.

There’s no shame in being a bartender.  It’s an old profession.  Noble, even.  A valuable skill in almost every society in the world.  No matter what kind of bar you’re tending, the bedrock truth of the matter remains the same – you’re serving people.  You’re service industry.  You’re a servant, and no number of fancy drinks you invent is going to change that.  You want to be known for potions?  Go work for Miss Cleo.

Because unless you’re reaching new heights of molecular physics back there, nothing you’re mixing hasn’t been done before.  Maybe the mouthbreathers you drank with back in college have never had a cocktail mixed with Fernet Branca, but I assure you, it’s been done.  When I bartend, I’m not trying to be an artist.  I’m trying to be a mercenary.  I’m concerned with doing my job well and getting paid for it.  What’s wrong with that?

So seriously, stop being a fucking douchebag.  You’re not a scientist.  You’re not an inventor.  You’re not a mixologist.  You’re a bartender.  Get out that shaker and do your goddamn job.