The second beer can wait until he finishes the first one, and the first one can wait until he gets his head up off the bar, and he doesn't quite feel like doing that yet, because fuck everything.

He snorts a bit at that answer. Honestly, between sociopathy and depression, he'd dabbled in both, and both had wrecked his life in different (and, at some points, conjoined, because his brain chemistry had seriously been out to kill him) ways. "The heart needs to shut the fuck up," is what he finally comes up with, murmured into the bar.