My Job is My Therapy Sessions

So yeah, I spilled my heart out to this guy tonight, and it wasn't even a patron. It was a six-pack of beer. Had the worst day ever, my boss thinks my tattoos are too edgy, my car broke down, I ran into that ex who looks perfect in those glasses now. You know, small town gossip. So I'm pouring this guy his drink and I start talking to him, just rambling on about how much I hate Mondays and how the sky should have a mute button for noisy birds. He listened to every word, drank it up like he was thirsty or something. Next thing you know, I've gone through half my supply of bar napkins complaining about life in three-paragraph letters. It's embarrassing because I'm supposed to be strong, right? But here's the kicker: tomorrow morning, all this will feel worse. The beer guy won't remember anything, and neither will his taste buds.