writing at JCup
I'm at Joshua Cup, the hipster-est place in Macon GA, a little coffee shop downtown with ceilings painted black and scratched wood floors. I'm drinking coffee black with cinnamon and I'm starting in on writing my SIP, a personal essay. But I don't really fit in.
Two ladies in professional dress eat their organic lunches with big black sunglasses on their heads while three men use their laptops. The first is wearing a long grey robe of sorts with black dress shoes. Jewish maybe? I don't know, he's typing away on a word document. The other two look slightly disheveled. One with long, frizzy red hair and a black painter's cap has huge black headphones engulfing his ears; he's bent over his work on an ipad, shoulders kinked in. The other is wearing the gym clothes of a couch potato, baggy tshirt, baggy grey cotton shorts, and flipflops. They both sport facial hair.
I sit somewhat apart with all the glory of a pink laptop, floral notebooks, two bags, and several books. My pen is purple and my sunglasses are thick, red and black plastic. My bag of chocolate kisses are sitting next to them, ready to be eaten slowly, after each completed paragraph. Maybe I do fit, if the commonality is quirky individuality. Except I feel very much like every other poor college girl I know.
Two ladies in professional dress eat their organic lunches with big black sunglasses on their heads while three men use their laptops. The first is wearing a long grey robe of sorts with black dress shoes. Jewish maybe? I don't know, he's typing away on a word document. The other two look slightly disheveled. One with long, frizzy red hair and a black painter's cap has huge black headphones engulfing his ears; he's bent over his work on an ipad, shoulders kinked in. The other is wearing the gym clothes of a couch potato, baggy tshirt, baggy grey cotton shorts, and flipflops. They both sport facial hair.
I sit somewhat apart with all the glory of a pink laptop, floral notebooks, two bags, and several books. My pen is purple and my sunglasses are thick, red and black plastic. My bag of chocolate kisses are sitting next to them, ready to be eaten slowly, after each completed paragraph. Maybe I do fit, if the commonality is quirky individuality. Except I feel very much like every other poor college girl I know.
Comments
Post a Comment