What is it about me?

Work. A regular. One of my favorites. Comes in. Haven't seen him in awhile. Don't know what's been going on with him-it's been close to a month I think-but I was away for awhile with vacation in the mid-West.
"Hey man. How's your life again?" I ask as I pull his shots for his drink. Don't even have to ask his order.
He then starts on telling me and it's awful. Every word. Everything. Life sentence kind of stuff. If half of it were true it would be out of control but I can't imagine someone making these things up. Unless he's psychotically histrionic-which I would think would play out differently than this story. And I listened and he told me more and I listened and he told me more. Life tumbling in shreds over a warmed up frap and I am all the time wondering why he's telling ME. I'm just the barista after all. A stranger who happens to know what he drinks before work. But I'm behind a bar. I've got a rag that I use to wipe up the counter and I ask "How ya doin' buddy?" A bartender in the post-modern age of recovery and speed addiction over depressents. We have to keep going. No matter what happens we have to keep the fuck going. Even when things tumble down around and bad news is the only news you're getting there's no cause for giving up and staying in. Least not if you're strong.
The other girls working must not have been paying attention cuz they were sort of-glib, at the least and dumb as fuck more precisely. When he rattled off some choice words-appropriate if you ask me- one of the girls said "oooh! that's a naughty word! you shouldn't be talking like that!" and I thought "you aren't in this conversation so you shouldn't be saying anything about it go back to bitching about whatever ailment you have today courtesy of your PDR--what is it today anyway? tuberculosis? gangrene?" but I didn't say that. Maybe the people at work really are sick all around me and victim of every conceivable and inconceivable aiment known to humanity and a few new ones and I'm one of the few able to crawl through life without too many sicknesses that keep me out of commission. Seems that way anyway. What with G sick as he is and now this story I got today and what we were talking about yesterday about the melt downs. Maybe everyone's just really really sick-maybe even Acting President of the Disease of the Week Club has had every misfortune she's claimed and is just really unlucky. Maybe little old hard drinking, barely sleeping, anxiety having, muscle aching, head throbbing, always worried the madness will come back me is the healthiest person I know.
Jesus Christ on a bike that's a fuckin scary thought.