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“Poverty is the great reality. That is why the artist seeks it.” I read that Anaïs Nin quote on a bathroom wall that I was supposed to scrub clean at the coffee shop I worked at after I decided to be one of those would-be writers that picked New York in the MFA vs. NYC battle.
I had a bucket filled with chemicals and water that chapped my hands, and a terrifying boss who screamed and swore at me any chance he got. I hated my job. I hated the customers who yelled at me when the coffee wasn’t hot enough, and I hated the one who told me the iced coffee wasn’t cold enough. “How could an iced coffee not be cold enough?” I asked. “It’s filled with ice, just wait an extra few seconds,” I told them. The person yelled “Fuck you” at me and stormed out, leaving the drink behind, probably on his way to terrorize some other poor barista somewhere else.
I just smiled and went about my day at the job I worked two days a week because I needed extra money, because a job is a job, and although it wasn’t the job I wanted, it was still money in my pocket. … Read More
I had a bucket filled with chemicals and water that chapped my hands, and a terrifying boss who screamed and swore at me any chance he got. I hated my job. I hated the customers who yelled at me when the coffee wasn’t hot enough, and I hated the one who told me the iced coffee wasn’t cold enough. “How could an iced coffee not be cold enough?” I asked. “It’s filled with ice, just wait an extra few seconds,” I told them. The person yelled “Fuck you” at me and stormed out, leaving the drink behind, probably on his way to terrorize some other poor barista somewhere else.
I just smiled and went about my day at the job I worked two days a week because I needed extra money, because a job is a job, and although it wasn’t the job I wanted, it was still money in my pocket. … Read More
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