This is appropriate.
When reading a particularly suspenseful passage in a book, to worry the nail on your finger.
When bored, put your elbow on the table and prop your chin on your palm.
Neither one of these are weird.
This is weird.
When sitting in a Starbucks reading a book, (Get a Kindle you freak!) and running your hand across your OWN face as if you are caressing the face of a lover.
For 20 fucking minutes!
There is a creep factor here that is off the charts.
It creates something in the casual observer much akin to swampass, but with a karmic filth to it that only jailed pedophiles and Ned Beatty truly understand.
My morning is ruined.
I would have left 20 minutes ago, but I opted for a sumatran roast and it really is spectacular.
Excellent coffee is the one thing that can make me put up with unacceptable shit.
And unacceptable it is.
This is not like a moment’s discomfort, go about your day, act like it never happened.
This is like, go home and burn your clothes, cry naked in the shower, join a support group type of deal.
In a another era, we would have chased him thru the streets, naked and bleeding.
Him, not us, just in case that wasn’t clear.
I didn’t ask for my morning to go like this.
I came here with the intention of writing a sweet blog about St. Patrick and Ireland and a cute legend about snakes, and maybe end the post with a prayer.
And then this happened.
Pedophiles and lynch mobs.
Set against a background of rich Sumatran coffee.
Think about something twisted for more than 5 minutes and the Japanese will have dozen websites up within minutes, charging a monthly fee to watch a clammy-palmed gang of creepy motherfuckers, all fondling their faces a reading moth eaten romance novels with Fabio on the cover.
He is the type of guy that is heavily into Pinterest. (If you don’t see whats wrong with that, I cannot help you.)
He’s no stranger to police lineups.
I swear, at some point in his life, he has been standing in a police line up dressed as Santa Clause.
“Number 4, please step forward, drop your pants and say HO HO HO.”
If my coffee were not so hot and just now becoming drinkable, I would not put up with this shit.
He’s on the move, no doubt saw a helpless victim across the room that he wants to drag into his raised 70’s van.
He goes to the counter.
I am staring at him thru the steam coming out of my cup.
“Can I get a refill of the Sumatran?”
We are drinking the same thing.
I hate to be shallow about this, but it really is a good cup of coffee.
And besides, my mother likes old school romance novels.
And he does know his coffee.
Ok, so he’s not all that bad.