At some point I stopped putting the peanut butter back in the 'fridge and left it by the coffee maker. I pondered the glory and inevitable downfall of combining the 2 ingredients into some concoction, knowing full well the result would end up similar to when I took a butterscotch ice cream topping and tried to create butterscotch milk. I was 10 then.
Someone had given me a Starbucks card years ago, I never check to see the amount of Starbuck bucks it had on it. I don't go there. I don't give a damn about free trade or pricey coffee. I don't like how the guys with plastic glasses stare at me waiting for to inspire their screenplay. That blank page on Final Draft Pro leering from a MacBook Air, wishing someone with some creativity would come along.
I considered dipping the card into the peanut butter and licking it off while drank my coffee but decided to go blow the Buck's bucks before it got sticky. In order to get to Starbucks I have to get on the freeway, drive through one town, and drive to the far end of another town. I could just walked down the street and traded the Buck's bucks for meth, but the opportunity to drive past the failing economies for 3 towns at 10 in morning was more excitement than I could contain.
I walked in and 4 guys with plastic glasses were inspired to write a sequel to the Big Lebowski. I’ve got style. Their keyboards smoked. Their imagination burned. Their brows persperate. They guy with the Babylon 5 wrist band was type 10 light years per parsec with neurotransmitter torpedoes buzzing around his head.
S
eemed like they each got 7 lines or so before stopping and waiting to see what I'd do next.
Long and the short of it: someone had used all the money on the card before gifting it.
