Townshends Teahouse is my favorite homework spot, and I find that I am incredible productivity when I get the table in the corner with the floor pillows and a steaming pot of pu-erh. This might be why, when I found the entire area covered in chess pieces, cheerios, and drool, I might have been a little intolerant.
I cleaned it, which you called “sweet.” You two go back to ignoring the kid leaving her to rampage around, steal shit off my table, present me with various things she found on the floor, and put my earbuds in her mouth while you two talk about holistic child care, BPA-free bottles and meditation—completely ignoring the child who was about to fall off the stairs before I let you in.
I received a phone call during which you motioned for me to go up stairs. I replied by mouthing no and laughing. I then reluctantly babysit your kid for another 20 minutes, only bothering to you let you know she's about harm herself. On your way out, you interrupt me to tell me the “unspoken rule” of Townsends: "phone conversations are to be had upstairs, they are distracting, brother." I let you in on my “unspoken rule”—"little, disgusting snotty nosed kids running around touching my shit is a real distraction, sister,” and to "take some time from meditation and raise your children." As you walk away you broke your faÇade of an over-privileged zen-tard to call me an asshole halfway up the stairs. Cute.
Moral of the story: Don't fuck with students during finals week!
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