Coffee and Punishment

Cafe Veloce, “blend coffee,” pray tell what it is that you are blended with? Surely it is nothing to be recognized as coffee. Perhaps the diarrhea this unbearable taste of disappointment causes is harnessed by the underpaid employees; that is the only way those people can stand to look so cheerful. I bought a “scone” here once, a vague imitation of something distant edible. I dipped it in my “blend coffee” and accepted life’s daily misgivings. Cafe Veloce, how there are so many of you and so many like you, I do not quite comprehend.

You’ll have to excuse me, dear reader, it’s been a rough week. It seems simply ages ago that I disembarked from Seoul. Nine days is a very long time with no computer. Nine days is even longer when you can’t leave the house due to maddening illness, and nine days is an eternity with only Sex and the City to watch and no healthy body in which to consume the large amounts of alcohol it takes to get through ninety minutes of this mockery of my sex.

As a cult conspirator of coconut oil I attribute my illness to the two weeks I spent without. I may have swapped too much saliva with tainted parties or touched the germ ridden remote control of my current benefactor, who was, at my present arrival, quite ill herself. One must find a person, place, or thing to point a finger at during these days. Without the blame of others one can only blame themselves, and that, I hear, is no fun. (side note: I have never done anything wrong.)

I have kept a relatively short mental diary of my time in capture and will no share my less than fortunate experiences. I will title this entry, “Memories of Flu, A Sad Beginning to a Worse End.”

 



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