I sit down to write about yesterday's coffee adventure, ironically, at a coffee shop.

I run out of coffee, and put off getting some by sleeping in then going out for a cup at a place that gives free refills. After that, I go to the store and shop for coffee for such a long time need to take a bathroom break. I continue shopping at the store for a coffee that is competitively priced and locally roasted. The best deal I find is from a roaster that s not far from the store itself. I put down the bag. And decide to jut walk to the roaster instead. It is in the direction that I am going anyway. I think I will get fresher coffee there. I think that I will get a better deal. I think that I will have something to do for the second part of my day. I leave the store buying nothing.

If there is password protected wifi at the coffee shop you're are at do you ask the barista or a fellow patron for the password? I try Yelp.

I walk towards the coffee roaster, zigzagging my way to street it's on. On the way I see a boarded up house, a child running next to a father figure on a bike, and two boxes filled with shoe insoles. Someone walks uncomfortably close behind me for a short time. I pass a bar I've been to once. I pass an erotic shop. A man jaywalks from the other side of the street, and, when I look where he came from I see the name of the coffee roaster on a sign above a door. I thought the roaster was on the side of the street I was on. Apparently I'm wrong. I, too, decide to jaywalk this somewhat busy street.

If you get tattoos on your feet, would you ever wear socks? I wouldn't.

Once I'm on the other side of the street the sign is not as apparent. I am too close and cannot read it. And I walk right passed the coffee shop. I turn around and stand in front of the open door. It smells like cigarettes and not roasted coffee. There is music coming from within. Live music. And singing. There are people gathered around a guitar player. It doesn't make any sense. It is early in the afternoon, and during the week. And that's when I notice that everyone in the coffee shop is mentally retarded. They don't pay much attention to me. Even the woman at the counter acknowledge me standing half in, half out of the shop. I look at the counter and don't see any bags of roasted coffee beans for sale. I've already had free refills. I don't want to drink coffee here. I am scared. I leave.

If your girlfriend is coughing and blowing her noses in a napkin, would you allow her to feed you the bran muffin she insisted on buying and hand feeding you? Yeah, me neither.

I walk down the busy street, the direction I came from, to the light and the cross walk, to cross the street appropriately before heading home without coffee. I walk past a housing service, an industrial store for dolly wheels, an extreme outdoor gear shop, and an Irish sports bar with Looney Toons on the window.

The girl with the bran muffin mentions that she misses stripping. I can't help but sneak a peak at her and the guy she's with.

Across the street I see the same name of coffee from the store and coffee shop. It is the roaster. And I am on the wrong side of the busy street. The cross walk is down a ways. I will pass the roaster before I cross the. I don't go back.

The couple gets up to leave, but not before talking about her meeting his parents. I try branmuffin for the wifi password. When that doesn't work, I type stripper.


I didn't even know myself.
All year I shopped for clothes
That didn't fit – sizes I thought I was.

I bought large shirts and sweaters and jackets.
Picked out pants the wrong cut.
My britches were too big for me.

I wore clothes that didn't fit.
Like hand-me-downs from
My much bigger brother.

Until recently I didn't know my legs.
Or what my waist was.
I didn't know whose body I had.

This year I'm more aware. 
Of what to wear!
I've finally figured out what I am – a medium.


—Welcome to Wells Fargo.
—Hello. How are you?
—I am fine thank you. And you?
—Doing well thanks.
—Just the deposit for you?
—Yes, please. And thank you.
—Hey, we're both Smiths. Maybe we are distantly related.
The teller's name tag reads Marie.
—My grandmother's name was Marie. We called her Grandmarie. But she's dead now. And wasn't black – she was a quarter Jewish I recently learned. But maybe we are related. Distantly.
—Push the button on how you want receive the receipt.