As I was walking through Carrington Park, henceforth known at Screaming Preacher Park, I was screamed at by the screaming preacher. Of course, his rabble was as it is every day, and has been since well before the end times. “The End is Nigh!” he yells at passersby, but I just laugh and tell him, once again for good measure, that the end ended long ago. I threw a couple extra straws into his guitar case (though he had no guitar), and went onward toward my usual haunt of Cafcon 5.
Once I found my usual seat, I set upon setting up my beloved typewriter — the vintage, portable, Underwood, with original carrying case, that I scavenged from the ruins of Queenie B’s Vintage Wares and Pour-Over Coffee (I mean, Queenie B wasn’t using it anymore.) I do love this coffee-house, but as of late there is a new Barista (the very same who will not post my blog entries on the bulletin board) who always seems to ruin my order. Day after day I am given the same weak, reused…dare I say… GARBAGE. Is it so wrong to want a proper extra large, double shot, four pumps of sugar free caramel, with a swirl of locally harvested honey, a dash of vanilla coconut milk, and just the slightest whisper of locally ground nutmeg — and in a mug — PREFERABLY one with a funny saying on it. I don’t believe that is too much to ask for.
This has been Dr. Benjamin Brittle, Archivist, Librarian, Old-Timey Recumbent Bicycle Enthusiast, and Coffee Connoisseur.