This Star Bucks atmosphere for the blogger is a disappointment to the literati. It’s a disappointment for alone time in which the binge and purge cycle relates only to words rather than a disorder of eating. It’s the revolutionary and postmodern confidant for anything profound or relatable. Scholars scoff with their persnickety choice of a non-fat caramel latte, no foam 90. Which Layman translates to a drop of sugar free caramel in their heated skim milk at the temperature of 90 degrees (and God-forbid any foam should appear, immediate castration would occur to the guilty barista). All the snobs know that, all the bookish fair trade coffee fiends know that, it’s a language primitive to Cuneiform and post to Ebonics. It’s the language that substitutes sassafras for the word “love” in the overplayed, clichéd, mainstream love songs. It’s a McDonalds playground for the cynics or the park swings for the pragmatics, it’s an area to roam if you share the similar loathe for anything commercialized, capitalized or common.
And yet, we sit here: in the global franchise whose continual capitalization will soon match and exceed the very Mc Donald’s dynasty itself. So where did we get the idea, that this was a secret fraternity for book and bean lovers; a haven for the extroverts to transform into closet introverts and ostentatiously clad business men to lovers of Tolstoy and Nabakov? It’s a place where the Jane Austen fan club weirdoes are forbidden because their edge is dull like a hospital cafeteria’s plastic spork.
And yet, here I am, neither Jane Austenian nor Nabakov head, just a girl in heat with a tampon, trying to get some damn internet but can’t remember her user name or password. Somehow, my genius told me this vacation would do my brains good; it would allow some space and time to fornicate and create proportions like little Amazon children suckling their mama’s oversized teet in the pursuit of knowledge and exposure to it’s matrix.
Damn’t, I just want to write in peace. I have the blender farting slushies in the background, the sexy Syrian entrepreneur from New York City rapping on his cell phone about the coordinates of this Starbucks so he can get picked up (Don’t worry Phil, I’m not drooling) ,“ b6, c7, d 8, and e 9” what is this, a game of battleship? I have refined biker Jim who, after he inserted himself into my lack of internet predicament like a Deus ex Machina escape button, introduced himself, asked for my name, and continued to stare at me until he left –but not before he said, “Goodbye, Michelle” on his way out. Okay, Creeper.
Somehow I think it would have been more useful if I had stayed at home and flicked the bean, or whatever Gerard Butler called it in his new movie, The Ugly Truth (which was hilarious by the way). Oh ecstasy in my pants, stop chaffing! I shouldn’t have worn shorts that ride my legs like paraplegic unicycle racing. Jesus, I don’t even know what that means.
Let’s talk business or upside down. Let’s get back to the square root of evil, which is the number 2 unless you were on Noah’s arc, and then we’ll focus on four. Forget six hundred and sixty six or the number thirteen, nothing good comes from the number four. There’s dormitory quad’s, which nobody wants to see three other uncensored crotches and six other unshaven armpits, and 288 tampons every month. Not to mention, quadruplets rupturing the vagina and leaving abdominal stretch marks, quadruple bypass surgery which is ultimately something to be avoided, four parents means two divorced at some point, four people divided into two of each sex is a double date whether intentional or not, and four fingers when your index finger seceded like Texas during the civil war, leaves a disability in games like hide and seek( because everyone thinks you’re cheating when its your turn to count!) and a lifelong nick name of “stubby” or “stubs” depending on the age of the crowd.
Nothing good comes from four! Not even the wildly revered Gettysburg Address opening sentence which starts with “Four score”. What good did that do, Lincoln logs? He got shot while watching My American Cousin? It’s a slap in the face, a gat in the dome, an ironic impending doom with a sarcastic “Welcome to White America, bitch!” splat.
And this is the product of twenty ounces of iced coffee playing fetch with my kidneys like it’s a hamster wheel with species identity issues. This is unhealthy, machete- poignant writing with sassafras in place of love, cynicism –strait up –with a pragmatic twist. This is edge, baby, and way too much caffeine. This is a blood-shot eyed blogging manifestation like I’m a victim to a catheter insertion. This is mofoism. This is me.