"People often have an idea of you based off of their own realities and their own beliefs"- Jay A.

**

It was raining the second I planted a foot outside my fancy office building, the building I helped design and watched Engineers cement it brick by brick. DC's foul weather I swear.

They say an Architect’s design was an Engineers’ nightmare. They were right.

The magnificent concrete was at least seventy stories high and I was not about to calculate the height and width for you—I’ve done enough of that today. My brain was seconds away from being a spitfire if I uttered another technical aspect of my job.

A late evening on a Monday calls for a drink at the usual bar that I frequent. Yes, contrary to popular but sexist beliefs, women can drink in bars and not be labeled as a drunk on a weekday. Besides, I didn’t have a kid, I don’t have debts I need to worry about

I raked in hundreds of thousands monthly

and I’m not committed to anyone. Despite all that, I fucking hated my job.

The fancy pinstripe suits, the obnoxious wine parties, the pretentious charity balls that were tasked to squeeze the fellow upper class’ pockets, the exploitation of workers who built your shit for you and then underpay them.

Yes you heard me right. But hey, don’t judge me too harshly just yet. You read it right, I do rake in a truckload by the months, I have the fastest cars the world has to offer and I sometimes eat caviar for breakfast but I absolutely hated my job. Don’t ask me why, it’s a Monday so let me just get a drink before I go on ranting how my obnoxious job with a fat bank account has sucked the life out of me.

Rattles of bells rang as I pushed the door open, scanning the surrounding around me. The same stale alcoholic scent wafted in the air, the same flickering bulb that was always going on and coming back on minutes later was changed out, even the stools by the bar seemed polished and brand new. It was like the interior was baptized with this thing called ‘good taste’.

Someone even changed out the bartender.

Did I perhaps walk into the right bar?

I stepped outside again, my neck craning to see the sign above the door post, my 3-inch stilettos groaning at my weight as I did. But before I could double check, a voice pulled me back in. “Yes you’re in the right place. Except I’m not Barney.”