I’m just sitting in the Coffee Shack writing a critique on Cradle of
Filth’s lyrical waste. Personally I find it very easy to write a review on
their crappy music, but I can’t sound like every other person. Magazines
like people who write articles to sound different and want them to draw the
reader in with decent description. Well, I just want to tell them that they suck and move on with my life.






Instead I’m stuck in crappy shack drinking a filthy beverage that probably once was alien waste. People are drinking coffee, sipping coffee, which ultimately leaves me with disgust. I wish I didn’t feel the need to drink this dung to keep me awake, yet I feel this is the only thing that will ever connect me with people. My article is due in one hour and I’m running out of time to finish. If I don’t finish it then I don’t receive a fat check at the end of the month from the famous Rolling Stone periodical. Rent is also due at the end of the month.
The crap shack happens to have these really festive mirrors hung around everywhere. Like I really want to look at myself and feel conceited, but I do since it sounds more interesting than writing. Reflected in the mirror in front of me is a very greasy self-portrayal of the once cleanly individual of yesterday, who people applaud for outstanding commentary. To my parents I’m just a
disappointment.
My dad use to say, “You’ll never get anywhere being a journalist.” Then my mom would say, “Why don’t you work with your father? You’ll make lots more money then writing garbage.” I just wanted to say that I want to do what I want to do and whatever that is would make me a lot happier than being apart of some business that catered to people who made wrong decisions. Maybe I should have listened to them.
My eyes are now glazed with caffeine, and the granite tables are chilling making me well aware of my surroundings. Out of the corner of my eye I see a girl looking at me oddly. The girl was leaning over her table, as if she was about to pounce on me like a cat would on a mouse. She had ratty blond hair and a suit that looked like it came from the local good will. She then says, “Hey! You look familiar…You’re that one guy.”
I want to reply, “That’s very descriptive,” but I don’t. I drink my coffee until the cup is empty, much like the girl staring at me.
“Yeah! You’re that one guy who does something really awesome. I really
admire your work.” I keep wondering why she is still talking to me. I’m not
even trying to converse with her. “Well, my name is Shauna and I was
wondering if you’d help me make a decision on something. I really would like your opinion on it.” So this chick then decides to take something out of a
shopping bag that I failed to notice earlier. It so happens to be two
different purses. She then says, “So. Ok. What one looks best with this
outfit? I’m thinking the green really brings out my eyes but the pink really
goes with my shoes. Gosh. I have no idea. It’s a really hard decision but I
thought since you’re a guy you’d know what would look good on a woman.” Both
purses are hideous. One is made out of some bright green snake skin, and the
other is pink and furry. I look down at my cup, wishing it had contained
something more intoxicating.
“Damn. I need a drink,” I exclaim while I stand up to leave.
“Well!” she begins to yell probably hoping I’d help her make a very
“difficult” decision. I point to both of them and walk off. “Damn it! Tell
me which one Allan!” Why would it be so important if purses match an outfit
or not? As I turn around to yell that people are hungry and she could have
wasted her money on something more useful, she wasn’t even there. Instead
there were a bunch of people staring at me really oddly. Behind the counter,
the manager was holding a gun. Maybe I should have gotten some sleep last
night.