Grouch

Today being one of those days when you just need to be grumpy and left alone with a book and plenty of coffee, I wandered over to a coffee shop in the late afternoon with the requisite book in tow, assuming I would be able to sip pleasantly for a couple of hours on coffee and read with just the usual buzz of coversation around.

Silly me.

The place was crowded. Not a problem normally. But this was crowded with scads of giggly college going people. The girls gushing over the boys in as whiny and sing-song a voice as it gets. (“what yaa? hey, play that song, no, yaa?”)And oh yes, the grubby, wannabe-Cobain with the de rigeur long hair (but couldn’t be more than 16 years old) sitting with an acoustic guitar, murdering the concept formerly known as music.

“This is supposed to be Zombie.” Indeed. Sounded more like a zombie giving those strings the third degree.

Giggly, grossly gushing, girl runs her hand through his hair while he pretends to flinch away from it
“Hey your hair is not so rough now!”
“Yeah, I washed it. Must have been after two weeks.”

The intelligence of the conversation just killed me.

Then the girl insisted on teaching the guy on how to play “Californication.” Awesome. I don’t know what RHCP would think, but it sounded more like fornication. If you had a hollow wooden bed. With rusty springs. That creaked. And squealed. Even screeched.

I drank my coffee quickly and almost inhaled the brownie and mercifully left before more pain was inflicted on my poor eardrums.