Concerning the whole sordid coffee shop experience, it has crossed my mind that I left out some crucial background material.
This is another one of the coffee places I go to regularly. I believe that I have mentioned that I'm quite outgoing, and that the part of the brain that normally gets between what one thinks and what one says was pretty well burned up by all the alcohol and marijuana. When we go out together, SuperK grabs my arm and holds on tight.
"I'm sorry," she'll say to some clerk or waiter, cutting me off, "but I'm here to shield normal people from my husband.
Anyway, the crew at the coffee shop know me. We exchange pleasantries, follow up on brief conversations. They give me a grande at the price of a venti from time to time - I'm not sure whether this is a kindness or they're screwing me -- and we go our separate ways. One of the nice men always asks what my plans for the weekend are. A lot of the time I'll go to a meeting, visit with friends at my main coffee shop, read a little and take a nap, go for a swim, stuff like that. It doesn't sound too impressive to me.
I want to say: "I'm flying my extreme ultralight out to the Rockies so that I can do some extreme skiing or extreme white water rafting, I haven't decided which."
Prior to Farmer Bill's arrival I said: "I just bought some heroin and I'm going to stay high for the next couple of days."
The conversation experienced a lag.
"Good luck with your heroin," my barista said.
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