The fall of 2012 is, today, only a vague blur of cerulean beaches, tropical drinks, and heady baselines, streaming infectiously from the open windows of passing VW Beatles. I honestly don’t remember more than snippets.
My father remembers even less. Merely a week prior to our long awaited dream trip to the sparking island of Puerto Rico, my father had been diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia. “Stay home,” said the doctor. “Get some rest, and some blood work, and some vehemently painful bone marrow testing.” “Uh-uh,” said my father. And with that, we were off.
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Thank you, Friends, for introducing our society to the mind numbing and ever prevalent notion of coffee culture. Because I, like the rest of the world, have nothing but an abundance of free time, and a burning desire to sulk on a cushy sofa, in the middle of the bustling city, and sip some half moldy, ten dollar drip for two hours straight. Thus... the epidemic of Starbucks. Today, I receive a text message. My dear old friend would like to meet. And now I have to actually go to this nonoffensive, uber trendy, retch-inducing place. Sigh. |
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