Bar Bites.

I became a bartender because I was told the money was good and the hours were flexible. This was supposed to be my gateway drug to a "creative" life where I could play music, get paid, and sleep—because, you know, sleep is important.

Fast forward 12 years later: now, I can barely remember what a night of actual rest feels like. The flexibility is a lie because apparently, the only "flexible" thing is my back, which is now permanently curved and causing hip pain from carrying cases of liquor and shame (mostly shame). The money is also a joke. Sure, I make tips, but the real money is in the demon time, and if I wanted to shatter my spine and personal dignity, I could always apply for grants, or for the lead bartender position, which involves $2 more an hour while somehow managing 15 different drink orders and staff while being told by customers that they don't want the cocktail they ordered but "something more fun", “or I thought because it was red it would be sweet” but Campari doesn’t lie sweet on your tongue, it's bitter aftertaste bites, just like their tips.

Meanwhile, I’m still broke. Surprise! All my gigs and rehearsals are now scheduled at exactly the same time as my shifts. The music industry, much like the bar industry, is a black hole (like my spirit). So, yeah, I'm living the dream—a dream, which could also just be a sleep paralysis I’ve been in since my 20s. At least I still get carded.

Previous Blog Next blog