Friday Letters

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Dear Art History book, please miraculously become more interesting so that I will suddenly have the overwhelming desire to read chapter 17 instead of putzing around the internet and bouncing from blog to blog like my friend to the left as though the day is mine and I don't have a shitload of homework to do.

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Dear Starbucks, while you have your own set of challenges, I'm finally starting to feel pretty darn good working there. (Most of) the people are cool, the customers are pretty nice, and it's really fun to make the drinks. Not to mention, I love being able to draw all over the cups in downtime. I like to pretend someone, somewhere finds a smile if they notice their cup has a random doodle on it. This job has also made me even more of a people pleaser. Meaning, while working at my last job, sure, I liked making people's days better if that happened. But now I wonder after most customers if their day was impacted at all by our interaction. I know it probably wasn't, and that I don't carry that much weight (unless we are talking about my ass), but it's still cool to be a part of people's days in what seems like a quicker, yet more personal oxymoron of a moment when they stop in for their drink. Their mission statement is "to inspire and nurture the human spirit", which I find in working there becomes a mentality over time. And I kind of like that.

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Dear Macbook Pro, thank you for finally being mine. Not only can I finally sit down and write a Friday's letters post again (yay!), but I also feel significantly cooler and more socially accepted sitting in the corner of Starbucks with a cute little glowing apple on the back of my computer vs. the social outcast feeling that burned within from lugging around my giant eyesore of a Dell. I assume the backlit keyboard would be quite useful as well. Which I would know if I wasn't 87 years old and started to doze off the second my ass is in bed at night. I don't even know why I bother bringing the computer over there. It never lasts more than a couple minutes. But trust me. It's not you, it's me.