I'll give you another giggle to help me deal with the pangs of withdrawal.
A string slithered down the street, under the door of a tavern, and onto a bar stool. The bartender leaned over and stared at the string.
"You're a string!" he finally growled. "We don't serve your kind."
Disappointed, and very thirsty, the string slithered out of the tavern and continued down the street to the next bar. He crept in and wiggled up onto a chair at a table. The bouncer came over, crossed his mighty tattooed arms, and scowled down. "String," he said. "We don't serve your kind."
The string sadly crawled back out to the street. There was one more bar at the far end of the block and he slowly made his way toward it. As he passed a shop window, he caught sight of his reflection. He was embarrassed to see his tail end was unravelling. "I'm so dishevelled, it's no wonder they won't serve me," he muttered as he tied a knot in his end, hoping to stop the threads from loosening further.
He crept into the last bar on the street and snuggled up into a booth. A waitress came over, put her hands on her hips, chomped on her gum, and stared at him. "Didn't you read the sign?" she asked haughtily. "We don't serve strings and you are a string, aren't you?"
"No," the string meekly replied. "I'm a frayed knot."