Saturday

I just yanked a bagel from my apartment complex and carried it in my coat pocket to Starbucks, where I am now eating it. It's pretty good, too. I think I'm on to something here.

Writing may be as good as talking- perhaps better. I've been a tad frustrated lately when I hang around by myself because I have no release. The only way I could think of to get release was to strike up a conversation with someone. That is all well and good, but sometimes that can be painful to initiate. Now that I've started writing again, I'm able to find release, and it puts me in such a mental state that I wouldn't feel the hunger pains of social interaction. Yes, I think I may be on to something here.

There aren't many people here. There are never many people at this Starbucks. I don't exactly know why, but it can't help to have some of the most sour, ungrateful and mean-looking employees working here. There is an older couple sitting to my left. I bet they're staying at the hotel Magnolia, which makes up for the vast majority of the building that houses this particular Starbucks. They were talking but now they've stopped. I think they were arguing a few minutes ago.

A crazy homeless man just walked in, swearing at some figment of his imagination. He set his dufflebag down below the table by the window facing Commerce street. The older couple are definitely staying at this hotel, as I was able to conclude from what she just said- "I'm going up to the room to get some Tylenol."

The crazy homeless man is busy rifling through his dufflebag. I don't think he ever got any coffee or anything. He must be seeking shelter.

This Starbucks should be really cool but it isn't. I don't know exactly what's missing. One thing that is bothering me is that there is no background music. This makes for an eerie backdrop of noise. It also makes the locale seem less alive.

The Crazy Homeless man just walked by and muttered "Tall motherfucker…" under his breath. I don't know if he was referring to me. After all, I am of modest height; but then again, he is crazy. It turns out he did get something. It looks like a Grande-sized drink and some sort of crumbly pastry. He drinks his coffee without a lid. In between sips he rubs his face violently with his hands. Yep, crazy.

As time passes I feel the urge to find a bathroom. The coffee is beginning to take form in my digestive system, or my intestines, err whatever. Luckily I live close to here. I should make this my official Starbucks, but I really don't like the people that work here.