You have had your fill of me

One could think that I actually do have a couple of serious problems to deal with. There are various hints leading to that conclusion.
But I'm forever dealing with dissapointment because some dumbass bartender doesn't show an interest in me. Not enough though. No, not any. I can hardly admit it. No interest, apart from serving me drinks and hoping for a generous tip. I've had one of these evenings where you know three minutes into it that you are going to suffer. That you aren't able to let go and bring yourself to bed in time. Not before it gets really depressing. I'm a pro. I watch people I like go off with those I loath. I stare at strengers making up life stories for them, based on nothing but their clothes or the way they hold their beerbottle or hang out at the bar. And envy them for something I made up in my fucked up little brain. This is four weeks after my mothers death. Months into half-unemplyment with underpaid jobs and a clear "no future!"-sing attached to my forehead. I'm standing in a bar feeling isolated as hell, not belonging, jealous and bitter. I know that I'm a freak, I know that these aren't my problems, I know that I might look for these harmless, bearable disasters to keep my mind distracted, and off of the real drama. My poor little reality is not only uncomfortable or annoying. It starts to be a matter of livelihood. I have to make decisions of utter importance. Soon! Where and how will I live? What will I do, how do I want to make rent? I'm not sure I could answer any of these questions, not for a time any further in the future than next month. But here I am. Sitting in a bar, feeling lost and dissapointed because this bartender guy I don't know very well does nothing more to me than serving me my drink. He's smiling, I should be alright with that. What the fuck do I want now? And if he did fall in love with me head over heels, what good would that do me? Would he pay for me? Would he make me feel less frustrated and shallow and sad and tired? How could he, poor thing?
I'm sure it's written all over my face: Keep away! Too many problems, insecurities and stupidities! I would not want to make friends with me. Much less anything else. Really, I have to deal with myself first. I could never ever have any kind of relationship these days, be it with Bartender-Baby or anyone. I know that. But I walk home at four in the morning, not even drunk and I cry for the very wrong reasons. If this was a television series the audience would hate me. They'd say: Someone has to shake the girl and inject some common sense! They'd say: I really hope she'll be run over by a construction truck the next episode. The actress playing me would go: "This role was such a challenge, because she is so far from me! How do you portray somebody with a bag full of un-used opportunities and totally unable to live? I really had to read a lot of books to get into character. I've done a lot of research. Bla bla."
That's right. That's me.

While typing this my mind just came up with the following little question: "When might he work again? And when will I go to that bar next time?"