Posted by: Bozemama
on Apr 14, 2014
As a moody teenager growing up in a Midwestern college town during the ‘80s, I used to dream of a café where I could show up in a tipped beret, eyes lined thick with black kohl, a clove cigarette dangling between my fingers and a ratty Moleskine filled with bad poetry under my arm. In this café, everyone would know my name, we would listen to the Velvet Underground and nod in sync while drinking espresso. We would all share in the awesome badassness of ourselves, with or without conversation, because we had all chosen to be in this particular place at this particular time.