Here I am. A self-proclaimed writer. At Starbucks.
Waiting for the magic. Waiting, waiting. Waiting for my spirit animal to show itself. Or, waiting to die.
At present, I think there are two other self-proclaimed writers in here. They have Apple laptops, just like me. They have their coffee. They have a generally bitchy demeanor, as do I. Are they seeing success in their writing today? What am I missing?
The service is so slow here. It took me twenty minutes to place my order. I couldn’t tell if the guy at the counter was calling everyone “ma’am,” or calling everyone “mom.” At least one of those people probably was his mom. Either way, everyone in this place seems to know each other but me.
I came here to write some blog posts. If I had come here to write a screenplay or a novel, I wonder what kind of stories a place like Starbucks would have inspired. Probably a good kind of story. One that we’ve seen a million billion times before.
I think I just stared at a wall for five full minutes. A little shelf with trendy little coffee bags. Not one of those bags inspired a single thought other than, “Could anybody here point out Guatemala on a map?”
I’m still a little worried that guy really was calling everybody “mom.” Maybe I should leave.
(Then I left.)