I’m back at the Motts. I considered going to a downtown coffeehouse, but failed when I realized that last time I forgot to program my car with the address. The Motts still smells of cleaning solution, but I found a comfy chair, although these aren’t your bucks of stars comfy chairs. They’re old and in a prior life were probably leather, reading chairs. Now a ragged, corduroy-blue throw cover covers up their (what I assume is) decrepit cushions. A two-year old blonde girl sits in an undersized orange chair and colors on the table in front of me. Her father, an artsy relic with a tiny patch of hair under his lip, which screams for me to pull it out violently, watches her scribble and build a bridge with crayons. Yes, I am a bit bitter. I’ve only started drinking my coffee, and even after wearing my sick sweatshirt to bed last night, I woke up a bit sicker than yesterday.

The coffee is again exceptionally weak. I hanker for real caffeine. I’m not sure if this will keep me going long enough to write anything.

The regrettable-artsy man found a friend in Joe, the inspiration for Annie’s father. Joe has a one-year old, which, thankfully he did not bring to the coffeehouse. The regrettable-artsy man made this comment, “I’ve heard it said, and I’m seeing it more and more, ‘when you have a child, the days pass slowly and the years pass quickly.’” They continue to stand over me and talk about their eighty-year old grandparents and their children’s parties. I care little about either. They’ve moved away, and the regrettable-artsy man put his Indiana Jones hat on, which I take as a good sign of his impending exit. I’ve made my move to the corner comfy chair, which has good proximity to the outlet, which is missing the faceplate. It’s not time to plug in yet but I hate the anxiety of just thinking about running out of juice. I’m seeing my anxiety growing as an issue in my life and I’m not enjoying it.

The smell and bad music is overwhelming me. I’m concerned that if I go home, I won’t write, but sit around and do nothing all day. I’m going to try to stay here for a bit longer and squeeze my essence juices onto the page. It’s not working. I’m thinking the mocha was more of a bad hot chocolate than a caffeinated drink. I’m going to head home and hope that I pick up the computer later. I hate to do this, but nothing is happening. At least I’m feeling a bit better after the warm (mostly un-caffeinated) drink.

Oh, and by the way, I’m beginning to realize that David time isn’t great. This has not been as relaxing or fun a weekend as I planned.