Three cups of coffee greeted me this morning.
It was all lukewarm, since I made it about four or five hours ago. The second cup is alone in my kitchen sink, right beside the disposal. I’m waiting for him to come back for coffee, but he’s taking far too long. I needed my fix. No, he still hasn’t returned.
I’m not sure if he will. I know I shouldn’t keep waiting. I’ve been waiting for too long. His coffee is already in the sink, yes, but I can’t pour it all out, until I’m absolutely certain he won’t come back.
I mean, he was all over me last night.
It was beautiful. Everything all magnetic and shit. Those romantic comedies I grew up watching over and over again held no candle to our fire. But then he left.
I thought he was going to get some poppy seed bagels from the diner at the end of the lane. He told me it was twenty-four hours, though I always assumed they closed at night. I mean, I’ve never seen anyone there after about nine o’clock.
…show more content…
You know that I’m inattentive. Perhaps, he said that he wouldn’t come back after going to the diner and I just missed it. I miss things a lot. My doctor says that I’m just aging.
But, please.
Don’t tell me I’m too old for this. Too old to fall in love, or too old to wish that the college boy I picked up at the bar last night would actually go for me, or too old to pretend that my botox is preventative rather than needed, or worse--that I’m just somehow freakishly immature.
Thanks.
I knew I was vain already, you didn’t need to rub it in. I just miss being as long and carefree as I was in my teen years. Dancing on tables, kissing a girl that one time (which I totally did enjoy, though I would never ever admit it), and being skinny and pretty and
The gutsy owner of a local café organizes a music festival to rally support to save their small town from greedy developers, but when she promises to produce the famous band Sherbet, she may not be able to keep her promise.
I guess you want to know all the sordid details huh ? Hmmm. Well. Let me start with an introduction to the scenario. I'd already had a slave before but she wasn't behaving so I had to cut the bitch loose. It was a real shame. She was a real looker too. But oh well. I was cruising the bar circuit as is my usual. I went to the downtown core to scope out my next target but from what I saw there was nothing interesting around until the wee hours of the night when I was getting in my car and this young lady asked me for a light for her cigarette. Oh she was a looker, just like the one before. Long blonde hair that cascaded to the middle of her back, a generous pair of tits and wow, what a pair of legs. I was so stunned by her I almost forgot why I went out that night. I remember giving her a light so I'd have an excuse to strike up conversation. Just enough to stall her from leaving. She'd agreed to gab a bit so we both had a cigarette and talked in my car. The night air was a little cool so I turned on the car to keep us
I packed my things into a small U-Haul. We were leaving the town I had always known, Houston, to go someplace I barely knew, a small town named Navasota. We moved when I was four because my parents wanted us to experience a small town like they had grown up in. Would I find new friends? Would the people there like me?
All that you need to know is that if a bumblebee ever comes up to you in Dunkin’ Donuts, it might want a medium French Vanilla iced coffee with three creams and three sugars. If you don’t give the bug its beverage, you might leave the coffee shop with a new hole in your body, one that’s stinging, itchy, and a blotchy crimson that definitely won’t disappear for a couple of hours. This is just a fair warning for you coffee lovers out there: do not anger the bees.
It was an ordinary day at the bacon factory until they came. Two men in dark black suits and dark shades walked in the factory demanding everybody to leave at once. They told the workers there that they were from the F.D.A. Then they began saying that the factory did not meet health standards,and it was not fit for bacon manufacturing. I knew something was up but the worst was...i believed them.
Six years ago, My Mom, Dad, Sister and I started fostering a kitten named Buttercup, then named her Stella after we adopted her. Buttercup was her old name, along with her sister Butterscotch and brother Butterball. My family and I loved Stella. Stella is my version of a living treasure, even with her flaws I wouldn’t change anything about her. She's sweet, loving, and gives me someone to talk to who doesn’t criticize. She was my world, and still is. Stella has pure vanilla white hair, chocolatey-brown spots, and yellow eyes like sunflowers. Now she is six years old and I hope she stays with me for a long time. I’ll tell this story starting at the beginning at my house in Atlanta, Georgia, the place where I grew up.
Moe’s Cafe After my trashy car broke down I decided to head toward Moe’s Cafe. I sat down at the first booth on the left. The place looked horrible, there were cockroaches crawling all around the floor. Dust clunks are scattered around the ground.
It all comes back in flashes, the agonizing hunger, the deaths, and the lack of emotions. Suddenly I was back in that place, back in the crowded bunkers. Scavenging for food that I know I wouldn’t be able to find, giving up everything I owned, which wasn’t much, for an extra ration of bread. Everytime I close my eyes I see the smoke from the crematory and the bodies of the deceased scattered around my feet. Stepping over the bodies was something I got used to, but the images of the dead will never leave my mind. I haven’t talked about my experience to anyone but my therapist and my brother, but I feel that I need to approach my coping methods in a different way, facing what happened and telling my story.
Hey ponyboy you a wake. Yeah give me a few minutes to get woke up. Soda go wake up pony and tell him that the food is done and tell him he’s got to be a wake got to meet them reporters.
I ran into the most heartwrenchingly beautiful boy on my way to the library on September 16, 2011. The boy's name was Charlie. I found out the beautiful boy's name after he literally and metaphorically knocked me down and took my breathe away. When I laid eyes on Charlie my first thought was that Charlie was carved by the hands of angels. I should have been angry at the beautiful stranger for not watching where he was going
Americans are obsessed with a lot of things: our smart phones, celebrities, and finding a good bargain. But perhaps the thing we’re most obsessed with is good ol’ coffee. For many of us, our mornings are perfectly diabolical without at least a cup or two or three of the stuff. And, come 2 o’clock, when we know in our heart and bones we’ll never make it ‘til five and we need that pick me up, many of us head to the nearest deli or barista to grab a cup of “second wind.”
In countless homes and numerous cultures, drinking morning coffee is a staple routine. One can drink it alone at home, in a car en route to work or school, or stop at a coffee shop or café and enjoy it among other people. In developing my routine this year, I chose the latter practice. Every morning I arrive at a local coffee shop, smell the same aromas, order the same drink, sit in the same chair, and observe the same people who continue their morning customs as well. For several months now, my mornings have consisted of this, and every morning, I would mainly observe one person; an old man who has become somewhat of a fixture at this coffee shop and who has not changed his routine as far as I have witnessed. He is already there when I arrive every morning, sitting alone at the small table for two in the corner by the window, drinking his small cup of black coffee, and reading the newspaper. He is on a first-name basis with the workers and owner, and often chats with some of the other regulars. After months of polite smiles, quiet “good mornings”, and creating a background of this old man in my own mind, I finally get the courage to approach him. I start the conversation with him about our similar morning routine, and it gradually develops into a soft and informal interview.
decided to wait to drink my coffee until all my required morning tasks are completed; it has
Last night I barely slept a wink because I was so nervous, so now here I am trying to finish my morning routine even though I’m half asleep, its only 12:00 so I decide to just watch a movie before I start getting ready. All of a sudden I feel my eyes flutter open and I realize that I fell asleep, I dart for my phone that’s across the couch and as I open my screen I see that its 2:15 pm and I have fived unread messaging from tony, Great! Just my luck I think as I race up my stairs and get into my bathroom. As I reply back to tony I realize that my hair looks kind of greasy but I don’t have enough time to take a shower so I just douse it in dry shampoo and proceeded to put it up into a messy, after I do my hair I start to cake my face but then a though crosses my mind “what if tony doesn’t like girls who wear tons of makeup.” So now here I am scrubbing all my hard work off my face and putting on really light natural makeup, but wait what if he likes girls that wear tons of makeup and just as I’m about to take it off I look at my phone and realize that its 3:30 and I still wasn’t
When discussing the poetic form of dramatic monologue it is rare that it is not associated with and its usage attributed to the poet Robert Browning. Robert Browning has been considered the master of the dramatic monologue. Although some critics are skeptical of his invention of the form, for dramatic monologue is evidenced in poetry preceding Browning, it is believed that his extensive and varied use of the dramatic monologue has significantly contributed to the form and has had an enormous impact on modern poetry. "The dramatic monologues of Robert Browning represent the most significant use of the form in postromantic poetry" (Preminger and Brogan 799). The dramatic monologue as we understand it today "is a lyric poem in which the speaker addresses a silent listener, revealing himself in the context of a dramatic situation" (Murfin 97). "The character is speaking to an identifiable but silent listener at a dramatic moment in the speaker's life. The circumstances surrounding the conversation, one side which we "hear" as the dramatic monologue, are made by clear implication, and an insight into the character of the speaker may result" (Holman and Harmon 152).