Red Light. Green Light.

I’m a complaining sort of writer. Still searching for that feels just right spot for creative writing. After experiencing the distractions in Java Lava and absorbing bad vibes in the public library, I’ve opted for Borders.

My complaints don’t end. It was so cold between the tombs of books I found a small snow drift in the history section, apparently from last night’s fall not yet shoveled away by the staff. Without my parka, I couldn’t stay inside. The latte was warm as piss, unfortunately so, because the flavor delightful. I slung by computer pack over my shoulder and pushed through the glass door to the second floor patio, which sits nearly on top of the intersection of Highway 11 and Henry Street. Need I mention the traffic noise? My condo has the noise level of a monastery in comparison. It is remarkable that I can hear birds in the nearby telephone poles as vehicles gear up to climb the hill toward Wal Mart. There goes a load of rocks and a truck without a muffler followed by the town’s bright yellow HAZ-MAT truck. Rumble, rumble, rumble. In the distance sits a cruise ship on the still waters of the morning’s Pacific.

The metal mesh chairs are as uncomfortable as lava rock and have no ergonomic connection to the wobbly table.

Yes, complain, complain, complain. When will my desk get here?

Did I mention the fumes?