It's like a sickness.
I'm in Starbucks, again. Embarrassed, again. Unsure of how I got here, again.
I'm frowning at my change purse--which is already unzipped in anticipation, the little slut--when the barista makes me feel like the most predictable boob in the history of predictable boobs.
"Venti Soy Iced Chai, right?"
I nod in mixed shock and deepened embarrassment.
"714-7..." Pauses. "I can never remember the rest."
I narrow my eyes at her and her little nineteen-fifties reproduction glasses, then sigh and recite the rest of my phone number for her.
Twelve hours later and the shame and caffeine are still keeping me up, so I decided to start that blog I've been putting off.
I hope this blog doesn't turn out to be as embarrassing and predictable as my daily sleepwalk to Starbucks, but I'm pretty sure I'll still feel like a boob from time to time.