At the Athens Cafe
In the Athens Cafe in Astoria with B. (He just went to the restroom). It's very cool to be able to smoke here, but my stomach feels strange from the combination of Indian food, cappuccino and smoke...
The table is a pink, silver and black granite framed by an oak-ish wood. It's a strange combination. I wonder who designed it.
I wonder why I feel so different when I smoke. I love that B thinks I'm a "cool" smoker. I don't think I'll ever quit, just for the transformation it allows me. It's so unfair that there's only one more month until Bloomberg's fucking laws go into effect.
I want to be a writer. Find some kind of job researching. Not have to put on a show or get dressed up for anyone. I really hate that. It makes it hard to be myself. Hard to feel grounded in who I am. Maybe I can find some kind of job in research for the next year.
Being here makes me miss my dad. The guy at the next table has worry-beads. And all of the smoke and the coffee... I miss him. It's just so unfair. I wonder what he would think of me... Even now, I think he'd be disappointed. I guess that's kind of pathetic in a way.
I feel very exposed sitting in the window like this. There's a gray-moustached man on the payphone outside who stands very near to the window.
What kind of research job could I get? Would I be able to find something with the job market as it is? I don't know...
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