Coffee, I love it. Almost as much as oxygen. But ours is a fickle relationship and regardless of attention paid to this mistress of mine, she won't leave me alone long enough to sleep. And now it seems I'm to be her helpless servant yet again.
If my own addiction weren't enough, I'll be feeding the monkey that sits on all coffee drinker's backs. That's what it looks like anyway, a large drooling simian, slowly licking it's recently severed apendages. Aparently, I'm over qualified to work in a coffee shop. How does that work exactly? Can you make a cappucino too well? Not that I've ever found, in fact some of the people pouring mine could use a little more practice. So it's to a low paying, bad hour job I go. At least until I find one that stimulates my mind and refuses to over exert my body. Seeing as that possiblity is unlikely, a coffee shop it is. Good people, mediochre food, and cups of luke warm drainings of filthy dish rags being sold as coffee.
It's a mindless, tedious, socially retarded way to spend my time and earn my money, but I'm going milk the communist manifesto it represents for all that it's worth.
Wish me luck.
Fishbait
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