Live and in person from your local coffee shop

That's right, I have taken my laptop to this coffee shop in Italian Market and dragged Shawn along with me and managed to connect to their Wireless connection. Shawn did not want to come and i don't think this is the best example to give him about how great coffee shops can be because it's very smoky and they are playing the worst music ever...1980s mix of the shit that no one liked then and no one likes now. "Lies, lies, lies, get out!" And now, "Talking in Your Sleep" or whatever the hell Now we have this dwarfish old man with a limp and a brown hat who is loitering near us with a cigarette pinched between his fingers. Possibly retarded or a stroke vicitm. I know it will be a cinch to get Shawn back here every weekend! We seem to be having bad luck this weekend with obnoxious strangers--same problem at Moriarity's last night where we went for karaoke. We sat next to a table of 21 year old girls in sparkly tank tops who all looked slightly pregnant. They had what's known as the "muffin top" look; a term stolen from the Hipster Handbook to describe a woman (or man, I guess) whose jeans are so tight that her/his stomach hangs over it on all sides. The ringleader, Tara, sang two songs in an unfortunate voice--Liz Phair's "Why Can't I?" and something else that everyone at her table pretended she did really well. "Good job, Baby Doll!" Shawn ducked his head in embarrassment when I attemped to put a sugar packet in the visible butt crack of one of the girls. Shawn and I sang "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" to moderate smattering of applause and before we left, he brought down the house with Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" (bum-bum-ba!). Then of course we went home to spend the next two hours singing our own Karaoke Nation on Playstation II. We are very very good on our own.

(Shawn, who is reading the Inquirer, keeps sharing news tidbits with me while I'm writing and because he's been so good and come with me, I'm trying not to snap at him).

Bad dreams last night wherein I'm fighting with one of our VP's and she's telling me I need to clear out my desk immediately and then she starts crying and I'm all indignant and then later sneak back to get my stuff from my cubicle and decide to take the digital camera for ransom so they have to give me my vacation pay. It's amazing how, even though I'm leaving, I'm still frightened of getting into trouble or being reprimanded. Part of my continual anxiety stems from this letter to them I've been writing in my head to them...I really feel like I shouldn't leave until I explain the atmosphere in our department.

The small guy in the hat just asked, "Am I tall or short?" to the man he's sitting with--some guy I suspect he doesn't know very well because the guy doesn't respond much--just nods his head and looks around wildly for someone to come to his rescue.

Okay, so now I must try to freewrite for like thirty minutes. Something, anything.