There is something pathetic about people with coffees to go. I don't know if it is my irrational intolerance for my fellow middle-class honkies or just an understanding that a coffee to go is a metaphor for that sad state of almost-living that could easily be my fate.
When I was a teenager and had made a firm plan to do nothing with my life, I cleaned banks. I reconsidered this non-plan of mine, when my boss told me to go to the fourth floor toilets and bring gloves. My non-plan had kept me firmly fucked-up, happy and sated until this point. The ominous suggestion 'to bring gloves' cut straight through the haze of my irresponsible bliss.
Someone on the fourth floor had shit themselves and hid the crap filled drawers in the cistern. Each flush refilled the bowl with ominous weak-tea colored water. During the execution of this crime, the perpetrator managed to flick specks of poo-goo and make shit constellations all over the stall's walls. After that shift, I determined to do something with my life.
The day I am too busy to sit down and enjoy a cup of coffee I will reconsider just what that something has become.