It’s 10:06 am, and I’m sitting in a crowded Starbucks. This place is great—lots of tables, lots of outlets, smell is unobjectionable. And yet, it one arrives too late, he’s stuck at the big table in the back, where one must share space/resources with a bunch of others. Right now, to my right, a man is checking his iPad. He’s quiet—no problem. Across from me, though, a guy is jabbering on his cell. This is, 100% without question, his right. But it still irks the living fuck fuck out of me, and causes me to repeatedly cast angry glares his way.
As I write this, there are six individual tables. All are filled, and five are taken by people with laptops and thick bags. That means they’re not moving—for hours. The sixth table is home to two elderly ladies. They’re drinking coffee, chatting. I think they’re both done with their beverages, yet they refuse to budge.
The nice Jeff Pearlman says, “Oh, how lovely. Two friends having a nice time.”
The dick Jeff Pearlman says, “Get the fuck out.”
On days like these, I wish I could write at home. Big table, stocked refrigerator, Norma the dog. But, generally, O can’t. So I come here. Or Cosi. Or Panera. And I stew, like now.
Wait, pardon me …
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