you should never pick a fight with an angry woman in a bar, chances are she's riding hard on adreline and nausea, she's had a lot of tequila in a concerted effort to get rip roaring drunk, but the usual combination of tequila and frenet cannot exactly reroute the twin rivers of grief and rage.

So a guy walks up to a girl at the bar, there is a competent Irish bar band derivitave of Springsteen, but we are here to see a French band derivative of Thin Lizzy, the manchild is angry, I gather he's been stood up from the invective he's spewing into his cell phone.

There I am in full regalia, secretly heartbroken and rapidly phasing into rage, all in black, spackled and lipsticked, fully ready to be drunk and ornery. But for that nagging sobriety, so I decide that I can still be ornery, and you really don't want to meet me in a crowd, I don't like to be touched. I can carve a sphere of invisibility with my gigantic purse, and the snark, the snark was quick and sharp and deadly and I was, am itching for a fight and all I got was some drunken frat boy transfixed by his alleged beauty who called me out for not accepting his proffered drink. Well you can imagine. I have no appetite, I have eaten a few slices of turkey and a ruefully swallowed a bit of cottage cheese, I take ten steps and think I might puke some indespenible organ, I am operating on a dose of righteous bile, and the heartening rage which proves that I am not dead.

So the frat boy, an estimated 8-10 years my junior all full of piss and vinegar, but because he is fundamentally souless he cannot even begin to compete. He calls me names after I decline his offer for a drink, he makes comments designed to impugn to degradate, but when you have just had your heart freshly ripped from your chest all bets are off, all I have to do is point my vitriol, bare a little tooth like I might otherwise bare a bit of leg, I tell him he does not really want to fuck with me right now, he doesn't want to listen, he wants to prove his prowess, and he thinks he can do it by insulting my backside so I tell him out of my front side, that he really doesn't want to rumble with me, I am just waiting for my double tequila, all I want to do is dance to the derivative french band but if you and your button down shirt are itching for a motherfucking fight I am going to lay you down with hands and fists and then I might possibly hate fuck you to death, because I am in that kind of mood and I wish I was drunk, but I am still sober as a judge.

I said all of that - except the part of about hate fucking, I think I will be a little more selective about that - at least I hope so. But there is the very real part who would hate fuck him to death, or maybe that's just the anger, or maybe the tequila is finally taking effect.

I was pretty tonight, defiantly so, but no amount of trickery can disguise the saddness I carry in my eyes, heartache is tatooed across my eyelids, I might as well be branded damaged goods, truth in advertising and all that. No sleep, no food, no explanation, just the ringing silence of my cell phone, just me and the sweet familiarity of loneliness, just me and only me hunkering down with my molten meteorite and my righteous indignation and the indifference I plan to cultivate tomorrow or the day after, that is if I can stop from weeping from the darkness of my bed, that is if I can divert the ache from my chest to somebody else's neglected slurry.

This is life, this is my life, unlucky in love, fortunate. Not unraveling, reveling in family and friends, ever hopeful, ever hopeful, fists of fury intact.