Real time though, I found it in my drafts and HEREYOUGO.
~where this started en la draft~
So here’s another hopelessly romantic ficlet that I am going to just wing right now. It’s about a dude and a chick and coffee shops and college and “A Thousand Miles” by Vanessa Carlton. Yay. Why the fuck am I so concentrated on romance? The world will never know. .__.
Marcus was an average college student who liked to do average college student guy things, such as party and drink and party and drink and play loads of X-Box and procrastinate and watch TV and go babe watching with his bros and scream at his football team during the football season and scream at his basketball team during the basketball season and oh, right, generally procrastinate and party until he realized at 2 o’clock in the morning that he was an average college student who had average college student work to do and that shit was hard.
So, like always, a handful of hours past midnight, Marcus would realize that something of importance was due in approximately ten hours, and he’d get right to it after a quick nap.
Only, on this Tuesday on some-random-day-in-March, Marcus realized that not only was something of importance due today today, but his midterm paper on the biology, anatomy, ecosystem, and a shit ton of other lame, generally useless scientific things of a Tenebrio molitor was actually due, and that was more than just something of importance. Because it was a midterm, and those were like, half his grade. And, furthermore, Marcus didn’t even know what the fuck a Tenebrio molitor even was.
There was, however, always a solution to everything, and if there’s a will there’s a way, and the force never fails a young Jedi, and with that jumble of optimistic thought rebounding around his brain, Marcus packed up his slightly dinged up laptop and skipped sluggishly towards the nearest coffee shop that would serve a bro at two twenty-four in the morning.
Marcus had only been to this particular shop maybe twice in his year at the university, but as it was the only place that the fellow apartment tenants were sure would be open, he’d gone there against his better judgement. (Meaning: Starbucks was closed and Seattle Coffeehouse was locking up for the night and the apartment’s fat ass policeman at the reception desk said that the place had boss donuts and the coffee wasn’t too terrible for a buck ninety-five.) With a slight, exhaustion-induced limp, Marcus made his way downtown, walking fast, faces pass, but sadly not homebound.
Hah. Ahaha. He was a mother fucking riot.
Finally, he stopped at the coffee house, conveniently dubbed The Coffee House. The shop looked relatively impressive enough with its soft browns and greens and creamy white and subtle gray touches. Hardwood floors, worn furniture and rugs in woodsy colors, and nothing too bright or striking, like the whole place was muted to have strictly subdued hues. All in all, from the outside, the place looked nothing but welcoming and cozy.
Marcus stepped in and then the worst music ever touched his ears, and he was sorely tempted to walk straight back outside because the highly disgusting tune of god knows what schizophrenic composer this was. Unfortunately, a man need his juice and this man’s juice was coffee.
With renewed conviction and a quick rumble through his laptop bag to fish for his (also relatively banged up) headphones and iPod, Marcus strode to the empty counter top and waited for a cashier to come and give him some damn coffee. Only, after standing there solo for a good thirty seconds, the man was getting impatient and the beast was threatening to emerge. Where the fuck where was he supposed to get some god damn mother fucking coffee now?
“You’re supposed to ring the bell,” a teasing, feminine tone called to him from the far side of the other side of the counter.
Marcus was a bro and his bro-senses couldn’t help but score her nice ass, long legs, average tits, pretty enough face she ain’t bad before he replied with a blank look and no-seriously-I’m-coffee-deprived eyebrow maneuver that he wasn’t entirely sure she understood.
Pretty Face walked away from the kitchens and, wiping her hands on a rag, asked him what he wanted.
He shrugged and asked for a coffee.
He was going to say “Coffee, carmel shot, 2 sugars” before she cut in and explained that they didn’t really have any of that sugary Starbucks fancy stuff, and he’d have to make due with some cream or take it black. He picked black.
And took four cakes just to spite her, because Pretty Face was a bitch. (Actually he was just sleep deprived, but that basically translated to everyone but me is a bitch right now.)
He wasn’t sure how long it would take him to finish four cakes, but that was okay.
Pretty Face gave him this weird look like he’d shit turkeys, but handed him a coffee and four vanilla cakes.
He thanked her and decided she wasn’t such a bitch when she told him that the cakes were on the house because they were two days old anyways.
Marcus walked out of his science lab, yawning and stretching and trying to avoid hitting people in the face. It was pretty easy if you were a giant ass mother fucker like Hagrid, but he was edging more towards Hans Solo, and people kept walking into him.
He was on the way to his apartment so he could crash until the end of the universe, or just until his next class which was in a week, thankfully, when Joey popped up through a crowd of other people Marcus didn’t really know with a brofist and a flyer and tells him that there’s a party at hot-Sandra’s place tonight, and he should definitely come by.
“There’s always hot babes in bikinis,” Joey said.
Marcus isn’t sure exactly why babes are in bikinis in the middle of spring, but he said nothing about it.
Instead he opened his mouth to spill his answer when Joey grinned, clapped a hand on his arm, and said, “That’s awesome, mate, I’ll see you there.”
Marcus wasn’t sure when he’d said yes.
He had a party to get to, but Marcus wasn’t getting ready because for some reason he’s stuck on his bed with a pair of jeans halfway on and a douchebag worthy polo sitting on his chest, think about, of all things, Pretty Face and her coffee. It was some pretty good coffee. Even if it was black.
But he sat there, images of her pretty face and nice figure creeping through his brain and Marcus realized that Pretty Face was pretty pretty and he kind of wanted to see her again. He knew her for all of twenty minutes or less and here he was thinking that he kind of missed her and that shitty music and he needed some coffee, like, really bad.
And he kind of wondered if she missed him too.
So there he was, Marcus, walking across the dangerous street three-quarters of a mile away from his humble abode and then standing in front of a glass door that read The Coffee Shop. After straightening his clothes and discreetly fixing up his hair in a mirror, he deemed himself fucking sexy and walked in.
Striding up to the counter, Marcus rang the bell like she had said to and cleared his throat.
“Can I help you?” This old dude said, creeping out of the kitchen. He was all white hair and wrinkled skin and no smile lines or crows feet and it was pretty fucking scary.
Marcus sighed and ordered four vanilla cakes.
Sometimes I go into these random (okay, not random, since it is always just when I kind of unintentionally see that all my “old” friends kind of don’t need me, don’t want me, don’t me anymore, so I think you can work out the details) depressed modes when my heart clenches up, shriveling up like plucked, fivedayold daisies and it beats a little faster than I want it to and my stomach decided that it quite enjoys judo rolling and well, basically I just get quesey and sad, and I really don’t like it.
No one really needs me, to be fair. No, to be fair, no one needs anyone, not in actuality, we just all want people and normally people want each other back, whether it be as lovers or simply companions on a lonely night. Only, more than occasionally, I get the feeling that no one really wants me as even a friend, and that’s a little overwhelming in not the funnest of ways.
Perhaps it’s melodramatic and, for lack of better words, stupid of me, but honestly, I always hope that I’ll never feel that way ever, hoping to find someone(s) that will just embrace me forever and I won’t ever have that abyssmal heartache, and for reasons I’m not sure of, the feelings always come back.
I just, well.. sometimes I think i’d be better off alone.
But I can’t even stand to trust that.
I really do quite enjoy late night uno and tea.
Lots, and lots, and lots of tea.
I don’t believe in feminism.
But to counterpoint, I do not believe in male dominance either.
To be perfectly honest, they’re both pretty stupid.
No, that’s not right. Stupid isn’t really what I’m going for, and yet for some reason it just so happens to be the only appropriete response to both movements that resounds in my head. Not stupid, no, but there isn’t an easier way to put it.
“All men are created equal.”
If so, why do we need feminism, masculism? Why do they exist? Why do women feel the need to go overboard, speaking on the matter of strict and often overbearing feminists, not the women who believe in equality, rights, and the power of the female. To defend your entire sex at every oppourtunity, including several inappropriate ones, just to prove something, that woman matters as a man does, to have to overexert yourself forcefully in such a way doesn’t seem revolutionary, effective, or portray at all the way I believe the ideal equality women need. There’s a saying, that being too defensive is offensive. Yes, it is. To defend yourself that much, well, it comes off as annoying, attention seeking, and most of all utterly vulnerable, not in a good way.
Why is there that desire to do so?
You don’t need to say that women are viewed as weak; just say why they’re strong. Because they really aren’t weak, and no matter how you see it, not all men think that they are. In fact, there are probably a high percentile of them that embrace and admire the woman’s strength and recognize their drive. If it wasn’t so, why would men know “not to cross a woman,” or “never trust a woman?” You don’t trust things because you fear them, their power. Women have power and men know that.
And men, they aren’t all macho. They aren’t all perfect Adonises and strong, brave Hercules. They aren’t all capable of fighting at the skill level of Bruce Lee, and they can’t all fix cars and the plmbing and virtually any problem. They can be just as sensitive as any female, and they can also be just as callous. They can cry and they can be looked down upon as well, it’s not just women. The point is, they aren’t all dickbags like hardcore feminists really believe they are.
Both genders face discrimination.
Both genders need to realize that it’s okay to be just a woman, just a man, and not need to assert yourself that much.
I saw this post, an opinion based on how tumblr men are currently gaga over the olympic female volleyball players, and yet it is for some reason considered wrong although tumblr women have been pretty hardcore creeping on the olympic male swimmers and divers. The arguement, by another user, was that women have to fight harder, that to admire their bodies rather than their talent is degrading, and that the first user’s view was “oversimplified.”
But was it? Was it, really?
How often, on tumblr right now, do you actually see recognition for Phelps and Daley and all the other swimmers for their actual achievements? Oh, of course there are pictures and gif sets of them accepting their medals, but read the comments. Do it, and see how many of them are purely admiring their physic rather than their talent. Those men work hard for their awards, and the majority of the population only really cares about their bodies.
Now women, they work hard to compete, of course they do. I applaud that. But, correct me if I’m wrong, is there not a women’s sector of the olympics? Do they really work harder than men do, who also have a sector, to get into the olympics? Both genders fight for their spots. Both genders fight for recognition. And both genders are admired not for what they do, but for how they look.
It doesn’t sound like one-sided, “oversimplified” opinions to me. It sounds like just, completely reasonable arguements.
Because how many people care that Phelps is the most decorated olympian? Probably just as many that care about how Douglass is the first black female olympian to be awarded the gold in all-around best gymnist.
Edit your views. See the inequality going on while you try to defend the inequality by throwing more discrimination around. If all goes as is, will rights really be that different? Or perhaprs we’ll be facing men’s rights movements in another thousand years. Who’s to say, but who’s to stop it.
Do you ever feel like you’re receiving someone’s love, and, despite how refeshing and disgustingly amazing that feels, it’s undeserved? Perhaps its a friend, or maybe a family member, or, heck, it could even be your significant watchawhatever. They’re smothering you in all this affection and endearments are adorned upon you like the dewdrops on grass, but it’s nott yours- it shouldn’t, couldn’t be. How would it be yours to accept? Why, when you haven’t done anything, haven’t said anything, don’t even feel the connection as strongly as you wish to.
But I think that’s a fine.
Because I only write in here when I’m sad really.
And right now, life is inexplicably good.
I think you guys don’t actually like me.
I don’t know if you’re actually my best friend anymore.
I don’t belive everything you’ve said.
I am fairly confident I could never respond and to be honest no one would actually care.
I think I have to be more careful about my friends now, now that I am, well, I don’t know.
I wonder if I really am different.
I think that you guys might like me better.
That makes me happy, I’m happy you like me, but at the same time..
I don’t know how to feel.
I think, for now, that’s okay though.