Some day I'm going to own a seedy bar.
I don't mean deliberately shabby bar, full of carefully distressed table tops and antique beer glasses. I want a pool table, mismatched glass, flickering neon signs with bits that no longer light up. I want no music unless it's old blues or slightly newer Motown, and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke, and I want an unwritten rule that nobody dances. Unless it's after midnight and you've had too many and you're going home alone, and then you can pop a nickel (yes, a nickel) in the jukebox and slow dance yourself around the tables.
There's going to be at least one fight every Saturday night in the parking lot, and I'll be sorely disappointed if Baptist preachers don't denounce my bar from the pulpit, and if organizations run by nice Christian women don't try and get my bar shut down. And I'll call it something really cheesy, like the Ace of Clubs.
To hell with your college degrees and tidy homes and 2.5 kids and all those other things people think they want. I want a seedy bar.