Dive Bar Princess

We are huddled around an old lacquered wooden table in a tiny cramped booth, surrounded by denim jackets, pool tables and sweaty long necked Miller Lights.  Chipped black nail polish on my fingers, I run them through my hair that is of course dirty, for it truly is all in the details.

The conversations are loud and bold, the crowd is inoffensively rowdy and I feel very much at home, cigarette smoke drifting in and out of my nostrils with the opening of the back door.

It is a beautiful balance of exposure and intimacy, and I am soaking it up like the ratty ripped bar towel cleaning up after the douche bag who spilled his Fireball shot.

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