It’s the last day of my vacation and I’m sitting, yet again, in the gay coffee shop, iced coffee and Aretha Franklin’s “Say a little prayer for you” is playing slightly too loud. I feel like I’m cheating the last fading remainders of my sexuality being here; but the music is funny in juxtaposition with my normal mood and it’s not like I’m using it anyway.
Sometimes this place has a somber vibe to it, the patrons telling of the devastation that was visited upon them in the 80s and 90s. Other times it glows with a vitality I can’t quite put my finger on. Mostly it’s inexpensive coffee that’s close to my shitty apartment and not filled with the same overly hip jerk-offs that infest the other cafe’s around here. Yes, I’m talking to you: guy with tight striped shirt with a v-neck collar riding a fixed gear tall bike stroking your ironic mustache.
I didn’t mean to get so mean, but I’ve been writing the same novel here for nearly 3 years and the fucking thing is still far from finished. I’m allergic to her lipstick. I found out the other day when we shared a beer and nothing more; my luck is awesome.
Anyway, I suppose I wanted to pop in and tell you that it’s ok if you don’t have tattoo sleeves or little birdies over your clavicle, though that second one isn’t so bad either way. I’ve gotta get back to the novel before work starts to kill me again. Good luck.