Suck It, Starbucks.

As my mum has decided to return to the Dark Ages and get rid of her internet for a while I have no choice but to find public places to do my blogs/look at Facebook. You may be thinking that I don’t need the internet to write these blogs, but you would be wrong – how else am I supposed to procrastinate and be late posting every week?

It’s hard to choose which place is the least cliché to work in. The answer is: there is nowhere that is the least cliché. Wherever you go, you are sat with your laptop in public, looking like a massive attention seeker. And writing a blog doesn’t make it any easier – the only way my public life could take more of a hipster turn is if I took a selfie whilst wearing my ultra-fashionable glasses and GEEK tee, my laptop and maybe a healthy salad lurking somewhere in the background; uploaded it to Instagram with the following caption: NEW BLOG POST, YO #salad #yolo #creative #lifeofablogger. However this would never happen because I could never afford a Mac; instead possessing the crumbiest HP mini on which the keys don’t work properly and the battery falls off if not supported correctly.

Today I have gone with Starbucks. I have outstayed my welcome in Costa the past couple of days. Now the only other place I can take shelter is the library, which smells like moth balls and unwashed charity shop clothes; or a pub which, at this time of day (2.15pm) is full of lonely alcoholics who either threaten to take you on a date or threaten to take you outside and stab you in the vagina as they flop, inebriated, onto your tabletop.

Sometimes these blogs take me a while to write. Mostly because half of the time is spent watching episodes of Breaking Bad on Netflix. So in order to be in a coffee shop without getting asked to leave I need a constant stream of beverages that aren’t just my usual tap water. So since becoming a key member of the LOOK-AT-ME-I-WRITE-IN-STARBUCKS club, I’ve been expanding my coffee horizons. The downside of trying lots of different coffees is that I usually end up walking a very fine line of having very intense writing sessions and a hyperactive personality disorder.

The worst time of day to be caught in Starbucks is around 3.30pm. You know school’s out when it stops smelling like coffee and the room becomes overwhelmed with the scent of about twenty different impulse body sprays. A typical GSCE “study sesh” by students from the local grammar schools consists of a five minute debate on Lord of the Flies, then two hours eagerly discussing last night’s Made In Chelsea, awkward boners, blowies, boob-grabs and the “Diet Coke Diet” (a can o’ coke morning noon and night, coffee as a treat, and a Babybel after P.E if one is feeling a little woozy – probably to help replace all those calories lost from standing around and TALKING during netball practice (burn!)).  When I was their age, I was still getting stuck in the baby swing at my local park, drinking copious amounts Sunny D and reluctantly making the transition from vest to bras (late bloomer). Now kids buy coffee and chai tea and shop at Victoria’s Secret and give blowies? What the eff! Mixing sex talk with a social commentary of “William Golding’s, like, total masterpiece, basically”? It’s like being in a room full of slutty Matildas.

However, when I’m on my seventh hour and millionth caramel latte, and the dark roast smell begins to mingle and react with the hairspray and Lynx Africa in the air, it begins to cloud my brain and my other personality comes out; hyper and manic. It suddenly becomes very hard to resist flicking all my hair over to one side and bounding over to them like an awkward bull in the most pretentious china shop, squealing “Oh my GOD you guys I love Lord of the Flies when I was in school I didn’t even know what a conch was I didn’t do well in my GSCE’s HEY GUYS do you like One Direction? You know the popular boy band? Do you like their songs because I like all of them especially the one about being beautiful or the one about being so fat you can’t fit in your jeans – you guys like Harry? Yeah you like Harry! Do you have Instagram? I’ll add you! Yeah I’ve had sex before” but I don’t know what stops me more: looking like Starbucks’ resident paedophile or shitting my pants from all the excitement.

Instead I do not take my eyes off my laptop – not because I’m too busy writing, but because I don’t want to make eye contact with anyone else in there. I just can’t accept that acknowledging nod from the guy in the thick-rimmed glasses with the Airbook that says “K’aw, look at us writers, hey! NO LOOK AT US. WE’RE BOTH WRITERS. LOOK AT ME – I’M WRITING MY NOVEL DEBUT”, because it means I will have to admit the dire position I’m in right now. Of course we’re not both writers. We don’t get paid for this! I’m paying for a muffin in coppers for Christ’s sake! We’re just unemployed dreamers who like to pretend that we gonna make it real big one day. And the only thing worse that admitting I’m writing a novel in Starbucks is admitting that I’m writing a blog, which requires much less commitment. I have no qualms in raising my voice to him over the hum of Starbucks’ Jazz Café CD to let him know: “WE’RE NOT THE SAME! I’M ONLY HERE BECAUSE I STILL LIVE WITH MY MOTHER AT 23 AND SHE WON’T BUY ME ANY MORE INTERNETS!” Because I would feel less ashamed to do that. See, I like to do my writin’ and my dreamin’ from the comfort of my darkened bedroom. At least there I don’t have this bitch prizing the last five pounds out of my barren purse for a fucking jaffa cake:


 Go suck a dick, siren.


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