I Hate Coffee Shop Junkies
I'm not big on spending time in random places. There are too many people around and too many singing homeless men who can't hold a fucking tune (I blame it on the school system). But if I was to become suddenly wealthy, or hold a job that doesn't require me to be baked by halogens for nine hours a day, I may spend more time away from home. I love the beach, so I would probably go there a lot. Or to a lake. Lake's are pretty cool. You can fish, you can boat, you can lay in a tube and get drunk. But I know that in this fake reality of mine, with all that time spent drinking in stagnate water and removing sand from my shoes, I will not be spending any of my free time at a fucking Starbucks. Those places are the fucking WORST.
Why people choose to do this, I will never know. I would rather drink prune juice from a toilet tank. It's louder than an airplane hangar and it's always fucking PACKED, and it stinks like burnt coffee grounds. That's a recipe for terribleness.
Now, I get it when I see an elderly gentlemen sitting around, sipping coffee, people-watching, because I know that he's there to get away from his sad little apartment and brush up against young, healthy people, because it sure as shit beats hanging out in Washington Square Park with the bootleg peddlers that smell like Lo mein and the assholes dressed up like robots and the Statue of Liberty. But why in the fuck are their so many young adults hanging out in Starbucks? Do they sell heroin in the bathroom? Are they giving away free shit to nerds wearing Ramones t-shirts? Look at the guy who brought his computer - holy shit, that thing is HUGE, he dragged it all the way down here just to play brick-breaker?
And the people reading books at the coffee shop tables, I mean, c'mon, give me a break. I love to read, but I there's no way I'm concentrating on anything unless the real world is completely tuned out. Now, you tell me how in the fuck can someone sit there and pleasantly flip through Nabokov while the barista is threatening the cashier with a kitchen knife and the woman at the front of the line with the baby carriage that's big enough to haul seven bales of hay is screaming like a drunk person giving directions to a bar? I can barely think hateful thoughts in these situations, let alone attempt to digest some deep, theoretical shit. Maybe they can concentrate while a lunatic eats discarded tuna from the garbage seven feet away, but not me, I treat Starbucks like it's a morgue during the Bubonic Plague.
And it never fails that I almost get in a confrontation with one of these dickheads every time I step foot in the place. Now, some of the blame goes to the shop for packing seventy four tables into a eight-by-ten foot shop, but most of it falls on the douchebag who has seven chairs flanking his table, his skateboard, his scooter, his fucking remote control airplane and his LL Bean jumbo book bag with peace signs drawn on it, all spread out around him in every direction possible. Oh, I'm sorry I knocked over your Tony Hawk replica board, what are you 30 years old? Grow the fuck up.
I have no problem with Starbucks coffee. It's fucking coffee, the coffee is fine. But the people. And the place. Hell, pure unfiltered hell. Honestly, forget the beach and forget the lake, I'd rather spend the day with Jay Leno painting his porch plaid in the Sahara Desert, that's how much I despise each and every one of these dumpsters.