[So—I wrote this a couple days ago for #tumblr52-5, except I chickened out posting it here because posting it here would be an inexcusable breach of the boundaries between cute cats and the mysterious OB, so naturally I posted it on the OB instead (meaning you might’ve already read this), but what I’m trying to say is, everything’s been all kinds of fucked recently anyway, so fuck that rule too, even if it is a little late going up here, and anyway, I like it.]
Monday and the barista smirks but does not call the drink. The half calorie he’d spend shouting “Americano!” would be wasted upon me. His smile had been strained, his tone condescendingly chipper, his espresso pulled from grounds five shots too old. I am at risk of making proud some persnickety old fart who says things like “whippersnapper.” But service is dead—seriously! I need this coffee, my eyes tell him. Help me. And he looks down and says No. Rucking Forschach. Expected better from him than that; I should be in the bad mood, not the ass with access to one hundred-plus pounds of caffeinated dirt. I’m sleeping on my feet. The act of opening eye before noon, surprising. Before ten o’clock, extraordinary. Before eight, superhuman. Before six, mechanical; nothing alive about it. Bones swiveling on X- or Y- or Z-axes. Unruly stairs and gravitational action are the lightning to my Frankensteinian abomination. (Just using words now.) Rain starts when I’m halfway to work. Monday and all is hell. Eight o’clock and sweaty. Lets up by teatime. Fog settles during dinner. The Tacoma Aroma is a combination of wood pulp and flatulence. As if Seattle, weary of Atlas-ing the Puget Sound, takes a restful squat for just a second and ejects an olfactory delight.1 Over dinner, two others fall in conversational step. Their syllables tangle together in perfect syncopation. I admire that, but jealously; I sound like I have Parkinson’s and a drum set if I try to get a word in. I spend twenty-eight of thirty-six dinner minutes staring into ciabatta and salami, then return to my room to refill my pens and buy more ink, which is a little bit satisfying. The stink always piggybacks the fog. Work boring. Classes unfocused. Something half-hearted about each. All let out early; we’ll do better tomorrow, we agree.
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