I'm busy working on a bowl of blue crab & salmon bisque on the P6 patio. Its warmth fills me like music. Crowds mill around me, with space heaters at their respective nuclei. It's hard to be in this setting without the good company of an old friend, or the (liquid-induced) courage to make a new one.

This is a short glimpse into an alternate future where I continue being a social butterfly. Its easy for me to learn that my snobbery stemmed not from the interaction, but from the proximity.

I say that because even without a wingman or a drink, I still find pleasure in infiltrating a social setting populated by those searching for a sense of exclusivity. I'm the eyesore, the iconolast.

Except this all goes on in my head. I'm probably doing a very good wallflower impression; I probably don't even exist. The only person who cares is the bus boy they've converted to a waiter (solely for me, as punishment to him), and he's only required to by some slight professional margin. I'll leave him a fat tip for his troubles.

Alcohol will not make this better, or even more tolerable. In that sense, I know my run-in with the law was due solely to irresponsibility, not dependency.

I like watching guys who arrived alone float aimlessly around. I do it, too. You can be lonely without being alone.