This guy has done nothing to me.
He’s probably not a bad person; probably has zero ill intentions. To be honest, he’s probably just a guy trying to get by in the world. Spend a few hours at the ol’ coffee shop to get some extra work done, then head on home and watch the big game.
That said …
I hate this guy.
I hate him.
I hate him.
I hate him.
My book is due in 18 days. I’m starting to fall apart. This isn’t anything new. As deadlines approach, I tend to lose my shit one way or another. Actually, here’s the general pattern, which the wife would 100 percent confirm:
A. I start telling her this book blows and my career is over.
B. I get a headache.
C. The headache convinces me I have a tumor.
D. I continue to tell her the book sucks worse than any sucky book in the long history of world suckiness.
E. I bemoan missing a couple of my kids’ days. Like today, come to think of it, when they’re out playing and I’m stuck on my 11th refill.
F. The wife asks me to do something, and I start freaking out because the book is due and I’m mental.
G. The tumor passes, but … what’s with the black-and-blue mark on my toe?
I digress. The one place that keeps me somewhat sane is the coffee shop. I like writing here. The background noise. The lame music. The rhythm of life and illusion of social interaction. However, it all goes to crap when the guy (This Guy isn’t one specific guy. Or woman) shows up with his cell phone and starts jabbering away. I’m not 100-percent sure why, but something about a one-way phone conversation is 800-times more distracting than a herd of elephants, or a bunch of high school kids debating One Direction vs Justin Bieber. My ears focus in, I start casting evil glares, I … I … I …
Write a blog post.
