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I’ve said before that I’m a horrible person. I’ve also said that I make really bad decisions. But sometimes in life, I do something that truly brings to light both my questionable morals as well as my poor decision making. And this was the case for about a three day period of my life in Michigan, which will be the focus of the next two chapters. At this point, I wasn’t even an alcoholic anymore, just a short-term man whore.

Women always seemed surprised by my actions even when they had heard from friends what would happen.
And eventhough I was single, I spent most of my time at this bar belly up to the counter, in the seat nearest the beer dispenser, sometimes talking to friends, sometimes to the bartender, but rarely trying to seduce anyone. Mostly because, like most dive bars, you go there for the cheap beers and the solitude, not the wrinkly, haggish, old cougars that are drinking away the rest of their complexion and chain smoking so much that their skin literally changes color. The bartender was pretty hot. And while I’ve been known to dip my pen in company ink, I would never sleep with a bartender at my favorite bar because that’s got to be the stupidest thing a person could do. So, most of my nights there were spent in a quiet stupor.
But on this Thursday night, there was a band and a lot of people in the place.

