The little metal-lamp keeps flickering. I give it a little slap to get it to stop. It flickers two more times and switches off. I drop my head and hold it with my hands. It's been a long day. Working at a bar is not for the weak.

That's why I quit today. Why you might ask. I don't really know psychologically at which point my brain thought to itself "yeah this is it I'm leaving this hell-hole". It could've been the empty tip-jar. Or that coffee machine with a defect handle that I had to hold down to work, instead of it just staying there. Maybe it was that old woman, Ms. Furclock, who came by every thursdays just to read her book and stare at the workers. She was probably lonely, nonetheless I didn't like her eyeing me up and down. I felt judged.

Yeah maybe I just felt judged. Or like I was in the wrong place. I don't think there was much left there for me.

I stare down at the piece of paper I was about to write on. My pen is broken. The pen is broken. It doesn't serve me anymore. It served its purpose. I throw the pen in the trash can and got to bed.