Three Teenage Girls Walk Into A Coffee Shop. . .

I only have 21 minutes left of free wi-fi here at Starbucks. It seems that most of my posts are written from the beaten-up chair tucked into the far back corner on the right. The braiding is coming off the right arm, peeking out white cord beneath blue velvet. The back cushion is smashed out of shape, pressed down by countless people here for business meetings, meetings with friends, or as an escape from meetings.

The baristas are all loud, telling stories about co-workers not on this shift. The one other guy in here has the courtesy to walk outside to talk on his cell. I've been here since about 4.30. I did my Biology homework. I applied for a job. I drank a grande soy vanilla latte. I'm trying to figure out the best way to get home, while avoiding the traffic that loves this part of town. I would start going to the other Starbucks, but it is in a newer building. The coffee smell hasn't had the chance to permeate the walls there.

The coffee smell is home.

I get some of my best ideas sitting here, smelling the smell, listening to whatever mix cd was approved by all. Of course, even my best ideas aren't worth that much. Someday I'll get better at writing them all down. I suppose that's why I write here. At least I'm writing something, getting into the habit of it all.

Someday, my best ideas will be good ideas, and something will come of them other than outlines and plot sketches.

He's a big man now that he drinks at Starbucks

The barista's laugh is loud, grating. The two small boys at the next table stare, watching me flip through a thick chemistry text.

I'm not sure who I am any more. Gone is the sweet girl who swore to save herself for marriage, clinging to the dreams and myths of the 50s. In her place is an over-cynical quasi-optimist who doesn't really care about what she will feel tomorrow, only wanting justification and adoration in the here and now.

Weasley was perfect for the sweet girl I once was. He reminded me of a time when I wanted a thousand small children running between the legs of my many Great Danes.

He turned out to be truly idiotic. Forbidding me from large words in his presence, calling me every pet name but my own. Refused to step foot in my haven, because he hates coffee. Wanted sex-telly-sex-telly like a stereotypical guy.

So I went for it. I went for the brash Southern burr with the blonde hair and the defined abs. Turns out, those kinds of guys aren't any good for me either. He just wanted a quick and easy lay, not even holding my hand while leading me to the hill he wanted to couple on.

I kept thinking, If I coax him, he'll get sweeter, softer. He didn't. So we didn't. Did we? I'm not sure.

Perhaps my plans for the future are too big, too broad, too overwhelming.

The only reason I'm pursuing a degree is because the Peace Corps requires volunteers to have a bachelor's in something. In order to travel the world helping people, I have to learn how to help myself. But the purpose of traveling was supposed to be to find myself. Can I help myself before I know who me really is? The irony is astounding.

I'll write a book about it someday.