Never Wanted to Dance

Osmund felt like his life was spinning off course since graduation with each year things getting harder and more confusing by degree. He took comfort in the idea that until he broke his teen years things would be rough but once he hit twenty, he'd be established with a job and a steady boyfriend. But here he was on his twenty-third birthday, alone in a bar without a job, without a boyfriend and without a place to call home. The only company was a shot glass, his presence seemingly drowned out in the loud upbeat tune piped in to the establishment. "Happy Birthday to me," Osmund muttered and downed another shot of vodka. He hardly even noticed the burning sensation of alcohol on his throat anymore.

What was there to celebrate anymore when it came to birthdays? It was to be a celebration of his existence yet the celebration was as pathetic as his own existence. Alone in a crowd of strangers on his birthday and wasting what little money he had procured by being in a band on alcohol to numb the pain. Osmund bowed his head. He should've gone to the cabaret instead. At least there he could pretend he wasn't lonely.

He had had enough of sitting around moping and having to listen to the awful upbeat songs playing consistently so that he stood up and readied to leave. He hated it there. But then again, he hated it nearly everywhere, but at that moment he wanted seclusion. He reached for his coat, which he had rested on a nearby stool and snatched it without noticing it had snagged his neighbor's mug of beer, spilling it's contents onto the feet of a mere passerbyer. "Sorry!" Osmund pleaded to the stranger who had beer spilt onto them. His hands raised desiring to help ease the tension but not knowing how to do so. "Sorry, as well," He called to the owner of the beer, who looked at him disgruntled. What a night it was for him to celebrate his birthday.