Ain't Proud

Bless This Fucking Mess

He’s not trying to inspire shit.
He’s just trying to get through the night without catching a charge — or catching feelings.
Two beers deep before most people punch out,
he walks like he owns the bar but doesn’t remember the lease.
Sunglasses on indoors, talking too loud,
smirking like he knows he shouldn’t be here — and loving it.

This is the guy who makes every night unpredictable.
The one who doesn’t blink when the lights come on
and still manages to get served long after last call.
He’s not drunk — he’s operating on a different plane entirely.
Somewhere between blackout and brilliance.
His idea of subtlety is burping during someone else’s toast.

He doesn’t care who’s looking. Let ‘em.
He’s been stared at, judged, kicked out, and invited right back
because nobody does it quite like him.
He double-fists because one beer isn’t enough for the kind of shit he's about to say.
He exists loudly, without permission, and dares anyone to flinch first.

You don’t see him — you feel him.
He’s the storm cloud in your dive bar.
The reason your ex still texts.
The guy who makes out in parking lots, pisses behind the building,
and walks back in like nothing happened.
You don’t argue with him — you just pray he’s on your side when shit pops off.

No shame. No filter. No plan.
He’s not proud of it. But he’s not changing.
And that’s what makes him dangerous.

Hallelujah and hold my beer.