My favorite writing cafe is being overrun by Brits lately. I don’t know where they’re coming from; it’s like an ant invasion. You can see the flood but can’t figure out how to stem it.
Dear Brits: you are all very well in your place (i.e. Britain) but I find your sexy-swoony accents distracting when I am trying to hit my word count. Please go home.
Meanwhile, the strikers outside The Cafe (not my cafe; this Cafe is actually a bar, don’t-ask-me-I-just-live-here) keep blowing police whistles in time with their marching, a shrill misery that bleats right through my windowpanes.
Dear San Francisco: I AM HUNGOVER PLEASE SHUT UP.
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