Musing: at an early evening cafe

I am having a difficult time caring about any of this, unfortunately. So instead of studying urban ecology and how borders help "define" a people, I will write about my day. Currently, I am sitting outside, alone, writing this. Obviously. I would really like to have something significant or profound to say about my day, however that would require something significant or profound to have occurred. I'm not a good liar, so any sensationalized accounts of mine would be very easy to see through. For example, if I said that moments prior to this, when I was buying my iced coffee, the dark and enigmatic barista asked me for my phone number in addition to the standard "Would you like room for cream?" that I proceeded to jump on the counter, spilling the carefully disheveled granola display, and while kissing his sensuous lips, I lightly scratched my chin on his five o' clock stubble, I would be lying.

The truth is that he is no Byronic hero, beautiful with a touch of neuroticism, he is just your standard tattooed "intellectual" with a beer gut and a penchant for Palahniuk (although from his appearance, I'm almost certain he has only watched half of "Fight Club" before losing interest and changing his profile picture on his MySpace). And suffice it to say, I did not pounce him. Even if his name was Heathcliff and he looked remotely like Benjamin Bratt, I would never have the strength to do anything of the sort; I would most likely only be able to squeak a "Thanks," before turning the color of a freshly cooked shrimp and drowning in my own sweat. C'est la vie.

Anyway, on to my day. I began this morning tangled in my sheets, with a thin layer of filth and sweat covering my frame. I must have turned the air conditioner off last night--the "gentle" buzz of steel machinery I find to be quite haranguing and obviously not so soporific--however in my dream state, the only thing I recall is having a nightmare that while in a drunken stupor, my childhood friend fell off a balcony and died. Perhaps I should have left the machine on.

Before I continue, I must disclose that a group of scuzzy meth addict lookalikes have seated themselves close to me--consequently making me more anxious and aware of the fact that I am here, alone, at dinnertime.

Continuing. My roommate wakes approximately the same time as I do (odd, for neither of us has set an alarm), and I greet the day with a grimace. I am sweaty, my hair is a mess, and the first person I see when I rise is my acne-speckled roommate. What a fantastic Tuesday. She tries to laugh about the humor of our coinciding circadian rhythms. I shrug, feign a smile, and flop back into the twisted sheets. I refuse to get ready with her--the image of two roommates rising together, getting ready together, eating together, et cetera et cetera, makes me want to gag. So, I continue to lie in the bed, floundering in the wrinkled sheets, pretending to sleep so that my roommate would not pester me. Obviously, this sleep was not quite rapturous.

I grow rather hungry, and rather impatient waiting for her to leave. She takes forever to do anything; she is the epitome of sloth. However, after approximately an hour, my speckled-sloth roommate leaves the room, leaving her tacky rainbow bed unmade. I am finally able to rise. Usually, I leave two minutes for her to to return for a forgotten item before I rise, so that she will not think I wait for her to leave. But this morning was not the case.

I craved one of her peanut granola bars, and my stomach certainly was barking. I hopped out of my bed with great ease, and reached the bottom drawer of her particle board desk. My eyes went immediately to the shiny orange plastic. Ravenously, I ripped it open and took a hard, crunchy bite. I closed my eyes, and relished in the buttery and grainy goodness. All of a sudden, the doorknob began to twist, and I made awkward eye contact with the pimply sloth, her partially-eaten granola bar in my mouth. Dismayed at my bêtise, I stupidly turned my back to her, as if the act of rotating my body would make me immune to her judgments, statements, and equal-but-opposite reactions. To my delight, the sloth did not speak. In fact, she didn't do anything; she left. Looking back, this makes me more irritated, for I feel as if her return was made without purpose. I resent her for impeding upon my breakfast experience.

Anyway, soon after I felt compelled to dissemble my room (we move out tomorrow), and the agonizing and cumbersome task of lugging all of my shit into the car awaited me. The process was quite madefied, for not only did it begin to rain, but I overfilled my bags with thick and heavily-bound books, so each bag weighed...a lot. I worked up quite the sweat; each trip I had the misfortune of seeing my slovenly Ex staring blankly into his computer. I miss nothing about him; I only miss the constant attention. Oh, wait. I don't even miss that.

More and more groups are coming to the patio; I am more self-aware. I feel like hiding away like Greta Garbo...eyes are pecking away at my skin and all of a sudden I feel quite itchy. But why do I care? The people who surround me do not care about me, and I do not care about them. A couple is engaged in a rather sensual embrace to my left as we speak--I am even more itchy now. I must go, but where? I do not know. Certainly not here. Not only do I itch but my eyes feel as if they are about to bleed from the painful sight in front of me (two sizes too small white shorts overstuffed with a rear the texture of the moon--think craters and pockmarks). Said individual has a rather obnoxious laugh. I am annoyed, and I didn't even finish writing about the day. She smokes one of those cigarettes from the black and pink packages to seem more "raw" and "jaded." Please, she probably thinks that Kierkegaard is some kind of über-hip European shoe designer.

I've had enough.