#TeamTokyoDrift here too.
Last night I went to the other prominent "dive" bar that happens to be 2 doors down from the other prominent "dive" bar in the area. (Zoning, it's so convenient friends.) Our bartender was horrible (took my card and opened a tab for my friend and me when we wanted separate tabs, which tbh happens a lot when we go out because people assume a guy and a gal hanging out in a bar are on a date, then proceeded to not split our subsequent drink orders up between our cards but put them all on my confederate's card) and bartender-looking-for-tips-flirty all night. At least she kept falling out of her dress despite not really having a phenotype where poor fitting clothing would be #struggle.
She had this really loud and obnoxious laugh that drove my friend up the wall to the point of habitually mentioning it so as a joke I wrote "Love your laugh!" at the top of my receipt when we closed out but my fucking friend dicked around at the bar instead of joining me in making a bee line for the exit and I had to watch the bartender try and make sense of my drunken chicken scratch as a result. I hate it when you can't pretend you didn't actually take the L y'all. How am I going to be able to look this bartender in the face now when I go to the 6:00 am happy hour this place has on the weekends? I'm sure the ridiculously high percentage tip I left will smooth over any misgivings.
When I came home at whatever godawful hour it was the commune was passed out in the living room with the front door open. For the length of my exile here I don't think I'll ever be leaving my bedroom door unlocked. As I write this they just now came to and went to their rooms. (It's 0845.)
Though entirely age inappropriate (over drinks we discussed how neither of us want to end up like the commune, 30 somethings who are essentially directionless in life and live like they're in the dorms still), it feels good to once again allow the worser half of my psyche to subsume the rest of it. No more #dualities, no more #struggle, only unmitigated dipshit, which as far as I'm concerned is the real me.

When I told my therapist I was going to sign this armistice with myself (no crazy), they were troubled and asked that I give them a fair shot at healing me of this gestalt of maladaptive behaviors instead of surrendering to it. I have no intention of resisting their process, but I am confident that it will be the psychological equivalent of trench warfare.
So ends this episode of the Sorrows of Young Werthless.