Today I’m in a Venezuelan café where they sell empanadas and play slick R’n’B. I’m drinking very strong coffee that will soon turn me into a crazed monster who will wreak havoc on the world. I’m not supposed to drink coffee.
Usually, at this writing slot time, I write in a Starbucks, its bland anonymity a convenient green screen backdrop for a midday writing stint, but today I’m late starting and thought a wee change (and a venue where I don’t know the wifi password) might be good to shake me into work mode. So far, however, this hasn’t been remarkably successful. I’ve written a birthday card for my dad, planned to check out the cocktail supplies emporium in the next block and started sketching a Blue Jay. Perhaps I should slink back to Starbucks after all. Starbucks has other occasional benefits; The other day the manager gave me a free Rice Krispie square because I was Scottish. Being Scottish is awesome… if you like Rice Krispie squares.
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