Dreams & Onions

As I sit alone in the back room of the coffee shop, rubbing my face in dismay, I realize my fingers smell like hamburger and onions. What a shitty thing to discover about yourself. I smell like onions.

The permeating punk music isn't helping matters. But then neither does the deafening roar of the recently-activated furnace. Oh, yeah; my iced chai tastes like somebody forgot to wash the glass.

Awesome.

So I sit here thinking about what an overwhelming task it is to actually follow my dream when I finally decide to just write out what is most immediately annoying to me. Friend of the coffee shop owner? Your voluminous ranting has just deposited another ounce of ink to my pen. Milky shadows gliding along the wall? You give me axiety that your owner will walk in and see me staring at you. Kitschy lampshade emblazoned with constellations? You remind me that I only recognize Orion and his freaking belt...

Mmm...another sip of dishwater. With any luck, there will be just enough soap residue in my drink that I'll wake up in the middle of the night with diarrhea. Which would be great because I have to be up two hours earlier than normal to get to the airport. To travel to Minnesota. Where it's -6. At least I'll be back the same day. Just in time to miss three quarters of the KU basketball game.

I think I just saw a guy who lives in my apartment complex. I didn't see his face, but I recognized his walk. He walks on his tip-toes all the time. I wonder if he walks like that because he is eager to get to what's next. I wonder if he knows any other star formations besides Orion. I wonder if his drink was mixed correctly. I wonder if he is following his dream. I wonder if he smells like onions.