You know those letters you're supposed to write but never send for some assumed therapeutic value. Whether it was intended or not, this is one of those letters because, technically, you cant address an envelope to a particular section of sidewalk.

To whom it may concern -

The smell of cloves gingerly wafting its way towards me means but one thing; I’m entering the realm of that which I cannot stand. Much like Charybdis or the Sarlac pit, your particular band of laughable misfits waits to ensnare me with the accidental stupification that ensues upon me overhearing their indictment of the ‘Big Denim' lobby, or the commercialization of Raffi or some bullshit. My aversion to you utter human trash hanging outside of the organic coffee house is one of self preservation certainly, but more so of contempt.

If you utter, ‘Oh yeah, I know Rain and Karen who own this place. I can put my art up whenever I want cause commercial galleries are afraid of my work’, I swear to whatever malevolent force that put you on this planet I’m going to punch you in the fucking throat. I say this not out of irrational anger or rash reactionary irritation but of simple biological function. If your voicebox no loner is able to utter sound, I can’t hear you theorize about that Chomsky book you don’t understand, yet feel the need to talk about all afternoon. An afternoon you should be at that job your mom got you, but that conformist boss of yours expects you to wash off the black nail polish because ‘customers’ find it off-putting.

You bastards hang outside of a coffee shop all day, no doubt named after a Kerouac book or an Ibsen play, and fight the good fight against the conformist robots that pass you on their way to jobs or class. Much like the first unbeatable level of ‘The Rocketeer’ on NES, your conversations meander around the same general topic of art or literature, but because you boners never took the time to actually learn anything about it, they always end up at the same place – the continue screen. Having no other way to spend your time or – god forbid- your parents’ money, you gleefully press that A button, strike up another American Spirit, and start again with ‘I try to model my watercolor work on the minimalist French neo-realist notion of blah blah blah no one fucking cares.

-Clervius Narcisse