cafe stream of consciousness

(since I haven't painted a picture of a typical afternoon in-between classes. will be writing more about the real happenings soon.)

I'm sitting outside the usual cafe right now, avoiding the usual work, and replacing it with the usual carbohydrates supplemented by the usual calorie-free cola. Between bites of bread, I pick at the nail polish that I reapplied only an hour ago after chewing it all off six hours before that. I don't know how I feel about this shade of red; it's red light district hooker meets self-mutilating punk. Which makes me feel overly prudish for wearing underwear today and simultaneously under-angst ridden for not promoting my favorite socially controversial causes through the medium of various lapel pins. I stare at the bread. I shouldn't eat it. I feel jowly. I begin to think of Henry VIII and about the crane they used to lift him in when he got too fat to support his most likely inbred legs (I soon visualize my grandmother's purebred corgi). I then imagine myself being lifted in that same crane with similar jowls to Henry's, while dribbling the grease and fat of a turkey leg or something equally Anglican down my chins. Well, I'm going to die anyway. Stare at the bread. Pick at my nails. Succumb. Bite. Delicious.

Now I'm thinking of stomach crunches and the work that is beginning to inch its way further away from my peripheral vision and into my central vision. I think of doing both when I return home. Then I salt and swirl olive oil onto my bread with the finesse of a great sorcerer. I will do neither. A man with a poorly tuned violin shatters my gaze with the screech of his strings, and for a moment I ponder his story. Why the violin? Why Spain? Why those shoes? But soon the sound is so haranguing that all I ask is Why me? He finishes the four minute piece five minutes too late and smiles as if he has ended the genocides in sub-Saharan Africa and found the cure for cancer within the same five-minute span. He says gracias. Others around me ignore him. He sees that I am watching even though my eyes are veiled by fake designer sunglasses. The gnat approaches and extends his hand. I pretend not to see him and take an imaginary phonecall. The hand remains on the table. I receive a text message during my 'conversation' and my phone chimes and vibrates, falling out of my hand. My cheeks become the same color as my nails. I lose. Reach into my pocket and pull out some change, demonstrating my financial support to a man whose dreams are more resistant to death than Rasputin. He cups the coins and leaves matter of factly. I can hear my money jingle in his pockets as he walks away, and decide that that sound is worlds more painful than his screeching sonata in d minor. I feel defeated and ask for my check. My proverbial tail is between my legs and I saunter back to my apartment. I know I am close when I smile at the sounds of jackhammers and general discontent. Class on Muslims in an hour. Thank Allah.