Me, Coffee And My Idio(t)syncracies
Kaeiy is listening to: Sway - Bic Runga
Coffee and three inches of readings mix like vodka and... er... a sad person in need of a drink. Coffee makes it easier to plod through all the hullaballoo that so and so author said regarding this and that theorist. It helps my tired brain make sense of the layers of meaning (and useless jargon) these authors spout.
Coffee and people-watching mix too. Coffee makes people-watching more pleasurable. Plus, it helps ease the guffaws that well up in the throat when a not-so-pleasing sight manifests itself. Take it from the resident pintasera herself. Coffee makes people-watching more fun.
I know I am doing more people-watching (and blog-writing) than actual studying. That's ok. May second and third exams pa naman eh.
-o-o-o-o-o-
She takes the plush armchair across from where I lounged on a wooden chair. Her sleek Nokia 6630 does the talking for her, eyebrows knitted and thumb furiously screaming her soundless protests. "You're taking too long! My stomach is growling! My head is pounding; I need my caffeine fix!" Her world is a gloomy, gray place with hunger pangs stabbing her stomach and caffeine deprivation clouding her brain. Her beauty whithers as her discomfort grows, consuming her lovely face in a sooty vapor.
Then she walks in, her ray of sunshine. Her hair dances in the unfelt wind, her smile rendering the incandescent bulbs obsolete, her scent headier than the coffee brewing behind the spotless counter.
Miss Gloomy becomes Miss Sunny as she takes a couple of steps closer to the armchair. Miss Gloomy (now Miss Sunny) takes her hand and rises to kiss her lips. They walk out hand in hand, both taking a stroll under their own sunshine at 7 in the evening.
In my heart, I envy them. I take a sip of my scalding brew, look down on my notes and attempt to reconcile Skinner with Gesell.
Damn nigh impossible.
-o-o-o-o-o-
Stirring a short paper cup of just-below-boiling coffee with a freshly unwrapped green straw, she gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "dumb blonde" and I'm not even sure if she's indeed a SHE... in the anatomical sense, that is.
She doesn't even look real. Her cheekbones look altered. Her chin appears to have been fat-injected. Her lips are two lumps of molded collagen under a paper-thin layer of unmelaninated epithelium under a scalpel-acquainted nose. Her eyebrows are charcoal lines permanently stamped in her tightly stretched face. Perhaps the only things that are real about her are the lungs she is turning into asphalt with her ninth cigarette and the complaining stomach she's drowning in her third tall hot cappucino.
I wash down my doubts with a gulp of caffeine and comprehend Bandura. She could be someone's wife, after all.
-o-o-o-o-o-
A hefty lady sashays past my table. She is clad in black silk pants, a black tube top and strappy black stilletos. What catches my eye is not her flesh bunching up in the wrong places or her clothes that are almost bursting at the seams. It is a tag on her back. Upside down, like a turtle turned over on its carapace. Like a banner screaming till hoarse, yet unheeded and ridiculed still. It reads: Morgan de Toites. Oh my... isjapex!
At least I know she's a real woman.
It's in the hips, I tell myself as I drain my coffee cup before frowning down on Pavlov.
-o-o-o-o-o-
She comes into the shop as I place my readings into my document case. She looks familiar; she looks different. But I know who she is.
I don't need coffee to tell me that.
Do you?
-o-o-o-o-o-
"Sway my way, yeah
I need to know all about you
... It's all because of you"
Coffee and three inches of readings mix like vodka and... er... a sad person in need of a drink. Coffee makes it easier to plod through all the hullaballoo that so and so author said regarding this and that theorist. It helps my tired brain make sense of the layers of meaning (and useless jargon) these authors spout.
Coffee and people-watching mix too. Coffee makes people-watching more pleasurable. Plus, it helps ease the guffaws that well up in the throat when a not-so-pleasing sight manifests itself. Take it from the resident pintasera herself. Coffee makes people-watching more fun.
I know I am doing more people-watching (and blog-writing) than actual studying. That's ok. May second and third exams pa naman eh.
-o-o-o-o-o-
She takes the plush armchair across from where I lounged on a wooden chair. Her sleek Nokia 6630 does the talking for her, eyebrows knitted and thumb furiously screaming her soundless protests. "You're taking too long! My stomach is growling! My head is pounding; I need my caffeine fix!" Her world is a gloomy, gray place with hunger pangs stabbing her stomach and caffeine deprivation clouding her brain. Her beauty whithers as her discomfort grows, consuming her lovely face in a sooty vapor.
Then she walks in, her ray of sunshine. Her hair dances in the unfelt wind, her smile rendering the incandescent bulbs obsolete, her scent headier than the coffee brewing behind the spotless counter.
Miss Gloomy becomes Miss Sunny as she takes a couple of steps closer to the armchair. Miss Gloomy (now Miss Sunny) takes her hand and rises to kiss her lips. They walk out hand in hand, both taking a stroll under their own sunshine at 7 in the evening.
In my heart, I envy them. I take a sip of my scalding brew, look down on my notes and attempt to reconcile Skinner with Gesell.
Damn nigh impossible.
-o-o-o-o-o-
Stirring a short paper cup of just-below-boiling coffee with a freshly unwrapped green straw, she gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "dumb blonde" and I'm not even sure if she's indeed a SHE... in the anatomical sense, that is.
She doesn't even look real. Her cheekbones look altered. Her chin appears to have been fat-injected. Her lips are two lumps of molded collagen under a paper-thin layer of unmelaninated epithelium under a scalpel-acquainted nose. Her eyebrows are charcoal lines permanently stamped in her tightly stretched face. Perhaps the only things that are real about her are the lungs she is turning into asphalt with her ninth cigarette and the complaining stomach she's drowning in her third tall hot cappucino.
I wash down my doubts with a gulp of caffeine and comprehend Bandura. She could be someone's wife, after all.
-o-o-o-o-o-
A hefty lady sashays past my table. She is clad in black silk pants, a black tube top and strappy black stilletos. What catches my eye is not her flesh bunching up in the wrong places or her clothes that are almost bursting at the seams. It is a tag on her back. Upside down, like a turtle turned over on its carapace. Like a banner screaming till hoarse, yet unheeded and ridiculed still. It reads: Morgan de Toites. Oh my... isjapex!
At least I know she's a real woman.
It's in the hips, I tell myself as I drain my coffee cup before frowning down on Pavlov.
-o-o-o-o-o-
She comes into the shop as I place my readings into my document case. She looks familiar; she looks different. But I know who she is.
I don't need coffee to tell me that.
Do you?
-o-o-o-o-o-
"Sway my way, yeah
I need to know all about you
... It's all because of you"
