Because I got another wart cut off and gave blood. That counts, suckers.
Starbucks: you have not known absurdity until you have seen a gothed out teen in black lace sleeves and silver pentagram necklace cusing into her phone in a jersey accent while waiting impatiently for her dark roast.
Yes, her hip hugger cd magazine is colored black. Yes, she has a satanic boyfriend, some early thirties slump-shouldered mook in his own black jeans and black t-shirt. Nothing sadder than a he-wicca.
Her coffee still has not mothereffing come when two teachers sit down next to me and begin discussing their students.
"Her? She's an accountant."
"No, she's very creative."
"She's not as creative as you think. She needs to be pushed into things."
"She could really bloom at NYU."
"She could be an excellent Masters student at NYU. Which'll work, because she's not leaving the city."
"I was thinking creative writing."
"Too freaky leaky."
"Conservative?"
"Narrow. PC."
"Opens my eyes."
"You met the mother?"
"I met the mother."
"Tiny."
"Munchkin."
"Muffin."
"And there was an Asian kid. Real tall and freaky looking."
An hour of this. Mamet. Mamet? Mamet.
