I only started drinking coffee about a month ago; like cocaine or peyote, it’s never seemed like a chemical habit that would be a positive addition to my life. Turns out it’s not so bad — word is still out on coke and magic cacti.
This place is derided by my coffee-snob friends, but I dig its personality. Wood and brick interior, things falling apart, and a large enough space that I don’t feel like I’m annoyingly occupying a significant chunk of the shop’s real estate by sitting for hours or even all day, writing and interacting and doing all the work-things I need to do.
There’s a cute mohawked, tattooed girl behind the counter.
Neon signs and baby-strollers referencing the blend of homeless people, young babied couples, and middle-aged professionals who are my office-mates.