The Pussy

Coffee Shop Diary: First World Problems

All right. New coffee shop. This place and Dinette and Ostrich Farm are all– they’re all the stereotype. 43 year old white people in tangentially creative fields with robust salaries. Drivers of unusual Mini Coopers with ski racks. Girls with weird old money inbred jawlines and purple hair discussing a Tumblr about Women in Tech. People using the word curate. Curate is the new monetize. Get paid for something worthless. I hate white people.

The feng shui is off here. Every seat exposed so everyone in the room can read your laptop. It’s hard to look at girls’ tits. So it was designed by an idiot. Then again, I’m not what they want here. Weird aging lecher who spends little and leers at girls and frighten them. Maybe it’s made so I wouldn’t like it.

Where the fuck is my hot chocolate, you cystic acne faced cunt. Well, who cares. I’m just renting the seat. And actually the counter girl is kind of hot. It’s just that her face is shiny. I wonder how much money, effort and angst goes into keeping her face merely slightly bumpy and oily instead of a Vladimir Harkonnen wasteland of infected roast beef purple pustules. She is trim. She has an alluringly tiny ass. The kind you can cup in one hand. I want to watch it winking in my mirror as she rides me. Try to see the good in people.

I wonder if they forgot my drink. I hope so. It’d be an excuse for self pity and another example of how I’m invisible. My life is Milton from Office Space. Muttering about how I was shunted into the roach basement. The other barista is back now, the guy who looks like the 20th hijacker, after a 15 minute absence. He was clearly taking a shit. Good for him.

Little mousy haired girl ordering. Baggy white pants. I cannot tolerate a woman who does not wear form fitting clothing on her lower body. In the age of yoga pants I must know every contour of your crack and cameltoe.

Still no cocoa. At what point do I ask. Unending stream of customers. Getting her attention is like making a tough left turn. I don’t want to loudly interject in front of them and look like an asshole. I should just meekly accept it. I should be a martyr for this cocoa. I don’t care about it; I don’t actually want it. I’m paying for it because I want to type in a place where there are girls. I’m afraid of losing ab definition and drinking a 400 calorie hot beverage at 11am will make me into a fat disgusting sack of shit. Let it go.

It is better for me, for the staff, for everything if I don’t ask about the cocoa. But I spent money, so I must have it. One of the purple hair girls takes out her phone and it’s Twitter. Hers looks like mine. Stock ticker of fraternity rapes and racial incidents and women in tech outrages. The Kardashians for college types. Though I’m next to the register the clerk still doesn’t look at me. Unfortunately I continue to exist.

Later a macchiato comes up. She looks at me and says hesitantly: I think this might be… yours? I’m forced to say no, I was waiting on a cocoa. Oh yeah that’s right. Her apathy, something I can only dream of. I need to work in a coffee shop.

The cocoa’s OK. On the way I out I walk behind the counter. Throw my gum in the private employee garbage. She looks at me askance. Take that, fiend.