I think I’m gonna go do some work in a coffee shop. Nothing big, just somewhere local. You know, the place with the extra-hot coffee. Last time I was there I accidentally knocked it into my lap and then I didn’t even have to get that abortion we were talking about. Oh that wasn’t you. Huh.
Anyway, it’s a great place to get a little work done away from the distractions of my empty apartment. I like to see how many hours I can eke out of one cup of coffee. 8 hours!
Yeah, you might think that, but I hardly ever talk to anyone, because I’m working. I treat it like my office except I don’t have to wear pants. I even do that thing where I minimize my gchats everytime someone walks by. I know they’re not paying me to be there, but from the way they glare at me when I tape over the empty outlets you’d think they were!
I can seriously only imagine the number of novels that are being written while I sit there also writing a novel. Someday, the owner’s gonna be like, “The next Harry Potter was written in my coffee shop!” He’s going to feel really stupid for probably thinking I was on Facebook that whole time.
I used to go to this other place that was a little closer, but then I saw a sign on the register asking us to leave our laptops at home on the weekend, which is like whatever, but I wouldn’t ask someone to leave their baby at home on the weekends. The baby might DIE or something.
I looked around and saw that all the outlets had already been taped over, and I realized my job had been outsourced. It took me like 3 Americanos (single shot, 2/3 full) to get over that one, and by the time I had reached a reasonable stopping point for my depression the day was 1 hour gone, and I realized all attempts to work on my novel at that point would be futile.
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