I’m far too talented to be treated like this.
This is absolutely ridiculous.
I’ve been sitting in this coffee shop for over an hour now, hunched over my Macbook Air, sipping this lavender infused cold brew, and not one person here has had the common decency to ask me about my screenplay.
I chose this absolute hole-in-the-wall specifically for its hipster, more-artsy-than-thou atmosphere, yet everyone here seems content to lounge and smoke and scroll away while I just sit here, a positive well of creative genius fated to remain untapped because Wren needs to refill her Juul.
Do I like drinking something that tastes vaguely of soap and my ex-girlfriend — but mostly like hungover mornings — from a handspun mug courtesy of the Purple Glaze next door? No, not particularly. Do I think I look cool taking long drafts of it between composing brilliant pieces of dialogue? Perhaps, but that’s not why I’m here.
One day I’ll move to LA and show the world what it’s been missing, but right now it feels like it’s point blank refusing to accept the gifts I’m handing it.
How hard would it be for some guy, preferably a handsome bearded barista in a short-sleeved button down, to walk by me and happen to glance at the glory I’m spilling out onto my screen and say, “Wow, are you writing a script? What’s it about?” And I’d sigh and give him a warm, patient smile because I’ve been here so many times before and explain, “Oh yes I am. It’s the semi-autobiographical tale of a young woman and world that’s blind to her prodigal talents.”
He’d make me a drink (on the house, of course) and sit down with me to discuss this incredibly complex and tragic character. The topic would eventually shift to me and what an intelligent, cute girl like me is doing in this rundown town. I’d blush and explain that I’m just here until I can get the attention of a big Hollywood studio and finally make a name for myself. He’d smile shyly and wonder aloud if he could maybe take me out to dinner before I’m all rich and famous. And then I’d give him a fake number ‘cause I’m obviously too good for a fucking barista.
But I digress.
Right now, all of this unrecognized talent is going to waste drinking from a cup growing steadily more lukewarm. The injustice of it all!
This Spotify playlist is drilling a lo-fi shaped hole into my head. And how am I supposed to concentrate on the plight of Sabine Poblano when no one will pay attention to me? You’d think this place would hang a giant disclaimer on the door reading, “This coffee shop is the exclusive hangout spot of every self-absorbed asshole in town. Don’t expect a talent agent to happen upon your work here. Everyone here is doomed to mediocrity and lung disease.”
Is there something wrong with me? Is my turtleneck intimidating people? Is it my pixie cut too progressive for this place?
Yeah. Yeah, that has to be it.
Well, if this is how “The Grind” treats its clientele, I won’t be returning any time soon.
Maybe I’ll mingle amongst the masses next time and go to Starbucks.
