Everyone wants to be a writer, fuck that, sitting in coffee shops, macbooks flipped open, all staring around, checking out the crowd, making the scene, not really writing anything. Sips the coffee, reads a paper, stares outward, over and above, I’ll have another thank you. Tapping to be seen, glaring at the screen, lazily looking inwards at the machine, that they hope will bring about their dreams. I’m a writer, they say, don’t these people have jobs? I’m not a writer, I try to write things, make vain attempts. Sitting there, sipping on a latte, mouths foaming like their 8- worded order, invested in the scene, staring at the screen, one more internet search, they lurch down from a trendy caffeinated perch and atop the summit of authorship. No longer longing isolates, the place dotted with expensive machines, I’m a starving artist, can’t you see? Can barely afford this drink, I’ll take another please. I’m artistic, I’m deep, I wear hemp and don’t sleep. I want to be alone with these thoughts, not in a crowd of lookalike “writers”, internet browsers. A jack kerouac rebel, letting it stream out, a long scroll of thoughts exclaiming from my brain, my mind too frought, this spellcheck bullshit slowing me down. Paper is organic, a screen so sterile, flashing in my eyes, i squint to analyze. A typewriter perhaps, but how will I lug that to the coffee shop to sit amongst the writing elite? I will be the indiest of them all: my hat, my scarf, in 90 degree heat, my typewriter in hand. I’m organic, it’s organic, I say. Now won’t you scoot over, I’ve got heavy thoughts to convey.