Fake Deep Thoughts in a Corporate Coffee House

I’m sitting here at a Starbucks in Scottsdale, hot and sweaty after driving my truck (minus AC) all around the valley, hair desheveled and long overdue for a haircut, and wearing an overworn jacket with a missing front button. I’m surrounded by the well-to-do of this city, just getting off work in their suits and ties and fancy dress. They are driving their hybrid SUVs, and going on without a care in the world. I look outside the window here, and see my truck with it’s front bumper missing when it fell off somewhere on the freeway, and I see the grill that is poised to do the same. The interior is trashed, with a turn signal that sizzles smoke when engaged, and trash and crap abound from hauling art supplies, products, orders, and personal effects around. It’s parked next to a Mazeratti and a BMW.

I’m gladly and happily helping a friend tonight, and am killing time until I meet her by drinking an iced tea. I think about later, when I’ll go home and feed my turtle, then end up passing out on the floor since I had to toss out my bed, most likely playing a DVD I’ve seen a million times before to help me sleep. I’ll wake up to hit “play all” on the main menu at least twice throughout the night. My sleeping habits are, at the moment, poor.

I’m long overdue for laundry, and the clothes I have just don’t fit right anymore. My hair is ratty, and I can’t do anything to make it look good. I go out into the world every day not feeling the 100 percent I’d like to, yet I do. I’m always in some case of temporal embarassment, and can’t do much to shake it.

But the only thing that really makes me feel devoid of any selfconsciousness and self-pity is immersing myself in writing, immersing myself in art. I’ve finally reached a level where I feel completely confident in my abilities that no matter how scrub I look, or the perception I can give off to society, I have complete control over myself in that regard. It makes up for the lack of satisfaction in other facets of my life currently. To be a creator, and contribute something to the world, no matter how minimal or trivial it may be. It washes over the negativity in my life.

I’m not always going to drive a shitty truck, wear shitty clothes and sleep on the floor. I’m not always going to look like a bum. Those things come in time, and there is nothing greater than surprising people with your greatest potential. I haven’t reached mine yet, but in time it will come. Maybe I should have just went through the drive thru instead of staring at my truck. Maybe in the future I’ll be that yuppie driving his beemer through the drive thru to get his beans, not having these laughably existential thoughts.

Til then, I’ll relish in being the caricature of the starving artist.




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