There’s something about seeing a bar, whether in a darkened or brightly lit room, with high stools and the odor of not quite yet stale beer, that has always intrigued me.

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I wanted to go into restaurant bars as a child, but the sign clearly said 21 or over and my parents said no.

I researched and delivered an oral report to my sophomore class about an occupation that interested me, being a bartender.

I’m not even close to being an alcoholic. I’ve done my fair share of drinking, trust me, with outcomes that ranged from passing out for a minute on a toilet to whipping off my bra at a Halloween party.

I don’t like it enough.

No, it’s not the alcohol housed behind the bar that calls to me so much as the bar itself.

Maybe it’s the light that catches on the colored liquor bottles and the sound of people talking.

It could be the sense of comradary among the patrons and the lure of rebelliousness, the music from the jukebox flowing like vodka into a Screwdriver.

I find it strange the things that people find pleasure in.

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