Coffee Shops and Bars

The lifestyle of a writer is as romantic as you imagine. But it does require a bit more real honest work than you’re likely ready to commit to. At least it can have the backdrop of your choosing.

A man chooses. A slave obeys.

I spent half the day at the local coffee shop sipping on a cold coffee whateveritwas and the other half at the bar sipping on a rather smooth milkshake IPA. I spent all the day typing away on my laptop to spin my story through words. They are my best weapons in today’s culture wars. I am happy here people watching and noting the stark difference between the coffee shop and the local bar. Both deal in drugs, despite what society will tell you.

Most people spend all their lives being told what to do, when to get it done, and where to do it. Now, when you’re an autonomous writer, you may be free to make these choices, but you’re still responsible for getting them done, and you may even find that you’re an even harsher slavedriver than your friend’s boss. At least you’re working on your own terms though.

The coffee shop is well lit, but full of society’s hipsters and posers. People plugging away at computers diligently working very hard to produce fuckall. Despite the crutch of stimulants and a perfect workspace, little seems to get done. Nearby a fat cow of a woman with a “speak to the manager haircut” walks in. She asks for a pen. She will likely crucify me if I give her my pen that says “www.redpillduke.com” on it. I say nothing while stacking up words in my mind to type later.

As a mysterious writer tucked away in the corner, I continue to mind my own business. I’m observing. A preserver of these evanescent moments of daily mundane activities. I am fitting in with my beanie and cozy sweater. My bulging muscles betray me and I fear their gluten intolerant noses pick up the scent of my toxic masculinity.

The bar is the yang to the ying of the coffee shop. It is dark and quiet. A few of society’s more decadent and thus interesting, wander in and out of its cozy atmosphere. They talk of the truths of the town in quiet but more honest discourse. The drugs for sale here alters the mind just like the drugs at the coffee shop. Yet the mothers against decadent delights decide that this drugs is bad while others are good.

I belong here more than the coffee shop, not because of my demeanor or clothing choices. No, I belong here because everyone knows my name. Because these people care about anyone and judge not lest thee be judged themselves. They also know me cause I’m hear every week and my tongue loosen with each sinful sip from my steel member’s cup which dons my name.

Like the coffee shop, I’m tucked away on a couch in the corner to preach my toxic masculinity to the masses online. In walks a man with a distinguished mustaches…. belay that. He shaved it off for the current flavor of the week. I ask him if his woman gave him permission to enter the bar. A fuck you is thrown somewhere in my direction. I laugh. He asks if my woman knows where I am. Which one?? I respond. You gotta hedge your bets in today’s world of tinders and women who frown upon traditional masculine habits like drinking pints with the locals. This country was built on this type of behavior. Just ask Sam Adams and Ben Franklin.

I once brought a woman I was seeing to this bar. I shit you not, I walked in and three fucking women gleefully shouted “Hey Duke” at me as I walked her in. The ultimate pickup artist couldn’t have planned a better dread game. Honestly, for the life of me, I have no memory of who one of these girls is yet she knew my name. As we leave the bartender hugs me. This is the first time she’s done this. Her giant breasts press against my bulging chest muscles as my girl glares at her. Sizing her up.

Coffee shops are useful, but bars are fun. It is where alcohol is served that the world truly spins. The world may run on caffeine, but it is alcohol that stimulate true action and that is what makes change possible.