Spare Change
"I miss being stylish," he scribbled in his therapy pad. "I miss being hot. I miss being smart. I miss being young."
"Was I ever hot or did I just imagine it? Was I ever stylish or did I just dream it? Was I ever smart or did I just fake it?
Perhaps it isn't any more vain or narcissistic to be focused on one's own problems. The world around us becomes ever more darker, and so would it kill me to turn-off the news and invest in myself instead?
I'm all the things that the vox populi hates these days: immigrant, brown, and elitist.
And I'm all right with that.
All I want to do is code, watch my trading portfolio, look at pretty girls, drive my Porsche, and drink iced coffee in the Marina all day."
There was a commotion in the cafe and the colored girls in the corner moved away. He looked to his right: an old, diseased, white man in disheveled clothing was staring right at him.
The barista yelled: "Call security!"
The old man stretched out his arm in front of him and asked for spare change.
"I'm sorry," he instinctively responded. "I don't have any."
There was no malice in his voice as he denied him his request - only sadness. The old diseased and drugged man groaned and slowly walked out of the cafe.
"Zombies, man," the beautiful barista with the purple hair said. She walked over to him.
It was raining outside. He could hear it. It was pleasant. It was unusually quiet inside his head again. The anger he had felt about the ways of the world was gone.
And then the adrenaline receded and the self-loathing returned.
"I'll have another latte," he said to the barista.
He was her favorite customer.
"Was I ever hot or did I just imagine it? Was I ever stylish or did I just dream it? Was I ever smart or did I just fake it?
Perhaps it isn't any more vain or narcissistic to be focused on one's own problems. The world around us becomes ever more darker, and so would it kill me to turn-off the news and invest in myself instead?
I'm all the things that the vox populi hates these days: immigrant, brown, and elitist.
And I'm all right with that.
All I want to do is code, watch my trading portfolio, look at pretty girls, drive my Porsche, and drink iced coffee in the Marina all day."
There was a commotion in the cafe and the colored girls in the corner moved away. He looked to his right: an old, diseased, white man in disheveled clothing was staring right at him.
The barista yelled: "Call security!"
The old man stretched out his arm in front of him and asked for spare change.
"I'm sorry," he instinctively responded. "I don't have any."
There was no malice in his voice as he denied him his request - only sadness. The old diseased and drugged man groaned and slowly walked out of the cafe.
"Zombies, man," the beautiful barista with the purple hair said. She walked over to him.
It was raining outside. He could hear it. It was pleasant. It was unusually quiet inside his head again. The anger he had felt about the ways of the world was gone.
And then the adrenaline receded and the self-loathing returned.
"I'll have another latte," he said to the barista.
He was her favorite customer.