Friday Fuckhead

I left the club, burnt out and ready for sleep. I left the club and all I wanted was the blissful, docile embrace of darkness. Before that darkness I wanted some money, just a little bit, in order to buy myself a bottle of water. I wasn’t able to purchase that much needed sustenance because a cursory inspection of my pockets revealed an essential loss - my wallet was not there.

I drove the 45 minutes back to the club in the hope of searching the spot in which I had sat. I had hoped that my wallet might have fallen down a crack between the couches. I had hoped that a good-Samaritan had handed it in to the lady at the cash counter. With this hope in mind I took that long road back to the club in the belief that the bouncer would let me back in, just long enough to look for it.

I should have realized that the arsehole security wouldn’t let me in. Too much speed, combined with a small brain and lack of empathy makes for an unpleasant soul.

For not letting me back in to search for my wallet, you the doorman at Revolver, you are my Friday fuckhead.

Congratulations.