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Grits had just woken up from a short nap, ready to greet the world with a half-decent demeanor, when he hauled his figure into the shower. He turned on the water, feeling it with his left hand as he supported himself on the wall with his right. It was ice cold, so he turned the single temperature knob closer to the H, being careful to creep slowly higher along the temperature to not burn his hand. When it stopped moving, it was barely warm enough to satisfy him, but he got in even though it would only be colder from here. When, halfway through his cleansing, the heat gave out, he pounded a fist on the wall, turned off the shower, and cursed it to high hell as he used his sink’s water to finish rinsing the shampoo out of his hair. [color=fdc68a]“Useless goddamn hunk o’ schitt.”[/color]

Grits needed a drink. He dried himself off with one of his two towels, tossing it to the side of his bathroom haphazardly, and without a care. It was his bathroom, after all, and he’d clean it up when he damn well pleased. He threw on an old Hawaiian, slipped into some khakis, and put on his favorite pair of worn-out, cement-eaten shoes. They were his walking shoes, of course, and he didn’t have a spare pair anyway. It took him longer than it should have to locate his coat (it had been draped along the back of his recliner, as per usual), giving his hair enough time to fully dry. His keys were in the same spot as his glasses, so there was no trouble there.

Grits had trouble opening his door, not because of a faulty lock, but because he didn’t realize he had the deadbolt still in place. In his frustrated attempt to open the door, he almost ripped the lock out of the wall, only catching himself after loosening it. He mumbled some obscenities under his breath but took note that he’d have to fix it when he got home. Anyone stupid enough to rob him while he was gone would get what was coming to them, anyway. Already irked, he slammed the door behind him, no doubt causing more damage to its frame. The walk to his water hole was short, he’d been going there ever since he moved in a couple of years back. Friendly enough crowd, but it was more about convenience.

Grits entered the bar like an elephant trying to sneak into Buckingham Palace – he didn’t announce himself, but he swung open the door while muttering about how something or another was a complete joke. He shut his mouth as he waltzed into the place, remembering his anger management training, and trying to avoid screaming at someone who didn’t deserve it. He waved in the general direction of the patrons – less a wave, and more of an arm wave to symbolize the gesture. He plunked himself at a barstool at the end of the bar, and let out a sigh of relief. [color=fdc68a]“I’ll have a, uh… schitt, just gimme a water.”[/color] He’d come here for a drink, but he knew he shouldn’t be drinking. He’d managed to stay dry for a year or so – the Beat couldn’t save his liver – but he still frequented the place out of habit. It was a routine, of sorts – come for a drink, remember that he needs to stay clean, order a water, get irritated, go out, do all the same stuff a drunkard would do, then go home to repeat it all (except on Thursdays, when his routine was changed slightly to accommodate his love for Mexican cuisine). He listened to the other patrons, but didn’t offer anything much of his own to the conversation, again recalling his anger management training.