here's my excuse....

for shame on me? fuck it. i guess for shame on me. i'm actually a little guilty for failing to come up with anything that's even mildly interesting or entertaining for the last two weeks or so, i guess that's what no internet access and comfortability will do to a gal. also i have been balls deep in working at the coffee shop for quite some time now because all the other baristas are smart and applying themselves to college finals week or they are dumb and going on lengthy vacations to visit distant relatives for the holiday season.... either way it means that yours truly gets to make the shit out of some fancy shmancy coffee drinks four to five days a week instead of my regular three. this has earned me two things: bigger paychecks (which i will spend getting my dog's nuts cut off and fixing the filling in one of my teeth) , and hands that are stained brown from near-constant contact with ground espresso beans (note: do not EVER call it EXpresso or i will punch you in the face with my brown fist) thus forcing me to wash my hands constantly so people don't think that i have some kind of skin condition and all the contact with said soapy water makes my hands all dry and crackly so i have to constantly slather them with the lotion made from the milk of a goat and also happens to smell like cake batter.... the result being hands that are stained brown but smell like sugary things. they are going through some sort of identity crisis as we speak. i really like making coffee, other than the afore-mentioned problems it's pretty rad. i know how to make latte art, so when you order that "skinny sugar-free double venti mochaccino with only half the flavoring" not only do you get milk that has been processed a million times mixed with aspartame and crema, but you can also get a pretty little design on top. and the regulars are all weirdos with extremely interesting life stories. like bob. bob is a guy who used to be a really successful entrepreneur (a word that i had to spell-check but used to be on his business cards) until he married some gold digging bitch who took all of his money in the divorce and left him with nothing but good credit which he proceeded to ruin with a series of ill-fated investments. now he sleeps under bridges and hangs out at my coffee shop all day long and reads. he is currently building me a sweet road bike from all recycled parts in exchange for dinner ever night. or scott. i don't really know scott's story but i do know that he tips me a dollar every time he buys a kearn's nectar juice in a can. i don't even do anything. he will go to the cooler, remove a can, bring it to the counter, and insist that i take a dollar from him to put in my tip jar every single time. i don't even pop the damn thing open for him. he sits and reads books about ants and native americans and will talk to the nearest person seated to him about anything at all. he paints landscapes. a totally interesting and nice dude, but appears to have no friends outside of the coffee scene. there are at least five old guys who come in every single day. and will sit there all day, every day, waiting for someone to start up a conversation with them when they get bored talking to each other. and while all of this may seem really depressing, it's not really. unless i am in a totally shitty mood and could give a fuck less about scott's ant farm that day, in which case he goes from "charming" to "pain in the ass" in less than two seconds. maybe next time i will write about the tattoo shop, which for some reason is not nearly as interesting as the coffee shop, but i will try and write about it in a way that will make you rapt with attention. until my motivation returns bloggers....

sam, we are going to get so drunk at your dad's shrimp boil it will be embarrassing.

max, felis navidad?

julia and julia's boyfriend, i think it's cute that you log into each other's accounts and write stuff.

later vaders