I can’t write. No seriously. Everything that I type has the overwhelming stench of failure permeating around it. I’m not used to this. Normally I write things of biblical showmanship and long term importance. Not today. Today is like the Old Testament, washed up and irrelevant, not to mention a serious downer. Lighten up, peeps. Check it.
I’m thinking perhaps it is the venue at which I am “writing.” Back in Pennsylvania there is this bistro, (please note: “bistro” is actually in the name of the business. I am not enough of a hipster to use that word on my own, and I’m not cultured enough to know what it means) that has free Wi-Fi and really fantastic kettle-cooked chips. I frequented it regularly, composing soul-seducing prose of global significance. Or flirtatious haikus for my online boyfriends. Whatever. Point is, that was an excellent location for me to get my freak on, from a literary stand point.
Now that I have moved to Tennessee I have been on the hunt for a similar location. For awhile I was spending time at this independent coffee house called Jozlaowerokjaskdljfkjwsw, or some J-word I can’t spell. But I was tired of paying $2.50 for a coffee just to use their sub par internet service. So I have come to use Panera Bread, where I can surf for free and make imaginary love to all the bearded men that spend time there.
Things started out great. I was dazzled by the low-fat smoothies and perfectly reliable appearance of Sexy Bearded Gents (SBG). But today, while sitting in the PB I find myself dumbfounded, unable to produce a single sentence worthy of my 3.5 daily readers.
What has happened to my charming wit and non-cliché turn of phrase? I fear I may have driven away my own creative thoughts by watching too many episodes of “Ice Loves Coco” and binge eating orange freeze pops. I am going to ponder this for the next 22 minutes, allowing time for the ovulation of my creativity to hopefully result in something as entertaining as watching two dragonflies get jiggy with it while hovering over the driver’s door handle of my car. I waited a good 2 ½ minutes before swatting them away. In my experience, that is more than enough time.
The girl who in a past life was a dragon fly
So apparently, Panera Bread attracts a large population of well-bearded men. All but one of the five men in my line of sight have beautiful, manly, tuggable beards that I want to play with until the wee hours of dawn.
Sitting on a laptop, hoping no one has noticed that I am drinking a coffee from somewhere else and never actually made a PB purchase, I can’t help but wonder why I am always being confronted by these sightings of manly beards that will never be mine to enjoy. I also have to wonder why all of these men are always at a minimum of ten years older than me, and when I will see a man in my dating age bracket that will satisfy my facial hair needs.
I’m pretty sure #48 has something to do with the fact that I am a 22 year old woman, picking my gingerbread man scab in the corner of a food service location.
Bring on the cats.
F*** that. I want an iguana.
The girl with a translucent farmer’s tan