Saint Patty’s Day Heartache

The policeman stepped in my store to make a phone call. He finished his phonecall and commented how at least he’s earning money tonight, not spending it.
I folded my arms and said this really wasn’t my scene. He patted my arm and said “Get a couple drinks in you and you’ll be fine.” Something to that effect.

I don’t think he heard me the first time.

I wanted to say how I’d rather be home blogging about how girls can avoid all the drama that comes with the clubbing life; I wanted to explain how all the music and self-medicinal inebriation reinforces dysfunctional living without God; I wanted to walk out among all those people and scream at the top of my lungs:
“DON’T YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING? FULFILLMENT DOESN’T COME FROM THIS!!! YOU NEED JESUS TO HEAL YOUR HURTS! HE’S THE WAY TO REAL PEACE! HE IS THE TRUTH THAT WILL GIVE YOU PURPOSE! THE LIFE HE GIVES IS THE ONLY LIFE WORTH LIVING!!!”
But I didn’t. The policeman headed back out into the cacophonous insanity. And I restrained my broken heart.