I think all writers share a similar dream: midday, temperature is just right, the sun is perfectly shining, and there we (you/I) are (are/am) curled up on a comfy couch in a cozy coffee shop sipping delicious concoctions out of large and cutely crafted mugs. It's quiet and serene, just the occasional clicking of laptop keys to signal any kind of activity around us (you/me). We're (okay, dropping it now) relaxed because we're already super successful and awesome writers and Time Magazine just named us most awesomest person EVER in the history of TIME (take that, Einstein and Gandhi) and we come to our little coffee shop hideaway to avoid the paparazzi and adoring fans (I SAID it was a dream). Awesomesauce, right?
Today, Local Coffee Shop has proved me wrong. Internet went down at our office this morning, and since we're an internet-based company, it puts us in a bit of a bind. Our solution was to step out to Local Coffee Shop and borrow their internet for an indefinite period of time until ours came back up. This scenario = me excited. I thought, "I can finally start working on my writer-dream! Fun will be had at Local Coffee Shop!"
Reality check number one: Coffee shops that mainly cater to college students play bad music. BAD music. Not just "oh, this really isn't my style but this artist is still clearly talented." No. much more along the lines of "why is PETA not all over this band for torturing cats with rusty implements to create their music?"
Reality check number two: Tables and chairs at coffee shops are actually not more comfortable than anything you have at home. I'm pretty sure I've sat on tree stumps more comfortable than some of these chairs. Also I'm pretty sure hobos have slept on some of these donated couches and while I love eau de hobo as much as the next fashionable girl, I don't get my hobo scent from just anywhere.
Reality check number three: some people don't know how to act in public. Besides some people (obviously intentionally) visually assaulting me with their "fashion," I've seen a guy pick his nose and then PLAY WITH IT; the barista looks like he lives in a commune where they don't believe in diluting the purity of their bodies with showers; gaggles of people have come to have PERSONAL conversations in a PUBLIC PLACE. We don't need to get into it, but suffice it to say that's one more thing urban dictionary doesn't have to educate me on.
Another dream dashed by retched reality.