The coffee smelled like a studio wrestler's undergarment. Names of offending eating establishments are always omitted because I'm too fucking nice to inflict harm, such as by describing the food, but you can't be sued too easily for suggesting the places on Wood Street, downtown, serve coffee that can etch glass, like Theresa May's pee.
Caffeine is at least one of the four food groups, by necessity, much in the way opioids become a food group to people hooked on them. There's only one bus route that can possibly kick off a longer bus ride anywhere outbound, from my slummy home turf, and it dumps my ass off on Wood Street, where coffee is like a compacted world of underarms on a dog day.
Shit like this happens to locals who live in the outer urban boonies, the bus trips have the property of defining people, in the fresh coined memes one hears in a slum. I often stop for coffee, no matter how bad, first thing off the bus from my hell hole in Perry South to where ever. When doing so, virtually no one can not be struck by the Invisible Pendulum, just like the big brass bastard in the flick 'The Pit and the Pendulum.' Or like the huge pendulum in the motherfucking book. It swings back and forth from above, and eventually hits you with the fact that you drink putrid coffee in putrid places downtown.
Seen from above, like in a helicopter, the streets downtown, in heavy traffic, with its swaggering dyskenetic flow of pedestrians, buildings clustered like quartz, are laid out in a pattern that resembles a line drawing of Lou Reed shooting smack into the crook of his arm. People live and breathe on a map, and the way they get around defines them. Bad coffee is like drinking a slum. It becomes part of you. We are what we ingest. Life is putrid.
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