So I am the best barmaid in the world.
Lonely white-haired men sporting Black American Express cards are drawn to me like moths to a flame.
I'm not sure what it is, but I get such a kick out of them telling me over the bar of their secret Panamanian financial hideaways and high-budget, yet low-caliber movie productions that I just beg them to go on about their loveless and relentlessly quantified lives. It's sad and I, the fair barmaid, fawn over them, topping their Greygoose-on-ices, making them feel young again.
I really do love my job.
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