The Bad Boy Computer Programmer At Wattpad

STARBUCKS (Part 1)

**Amanda**

Sundays. No alarm clocks. No need to get dressed. No stupid schedule sucking the joy out of life like a chastity belt. These were the simplicities Amanda lived for. Engage with spontaneity or surrender to laziness?

"Me choose lazy," Amanda whispered. With Winnie curled up on her stomach, she draped an arm over her eyes to block out the morning light. Although four days had passed since her lively video chat with Wattpad Headquarters, thoughts of Ian still invaded her head as her mind transitioned from sleepy to awake. Those eyes and smile. His gentleness and concern for my well-being. He was like a knight in shining--glasses--saving me from those nasty, evil computer bugs out to destroy my writing dreams.

"Stooooooop," Amanda drawled. "It's done. Over! It never even started. You're being--dumb."

Rubbing her eyes with fisted hands, Amanda yawned and stretched her body horizontally like a cat. She sat up in bed and scanned the landscape of her studio condo. Dirty dishes still piled in the sink--just higher. Laundry still overflowed in the hamper--just more so. Garbage stacked above the can's rim. A box of donation items sat in the corner waiting--for the last four months--to be donated. Bathroom half painted. Clutter, also known as the I'm-not-quite-sure-what-to-do-with-this crap--scattered here, there and everywhere. A dusty vacuum positioned quietly in a corner like a precious heirloom never to be touched--only looked at.

Amanda's scan stopped in the kitchen where Winnie sat by her empty bowl, squinting as though plotting something criminal. "I'm coming," Amanda called.

Sliding out of bed, Amanda snatched a 'To Do' list off her dresser and trudged towards the hungry feline. With a curled lip and load of anti-enthusiasm, she stared at the checklist. The bullet point items seemed to multiply before her eyes on the paper. It was as if Santa dropped his naughty list on her dresser and the little shits kept popping up like flies--on shit.

"Why isn't anything crossed off?" Amanda mumbled. She filled Winnie's bowl with a scoop of dried cat food and glanced at the list again. Is there anything that would take--ten seconds to do?

Tossing the paper over her shoulder, Amanda sighed. "Screw it. I need to write my story. Getting my ideas and creativity out into the world is more important than--." She slapped her hands together in mid-air, trapping a fruit fly between her palms as though training to be the next karate kid. "Maybe I should take the garbage out."

After the garbage was dumped and a load of laundry put in the washer, Amanda gathered her laptop and purse to search for a less chaotic writing environment. Naturally--like many Seattleites--she ended up at a Starbucks.

It was on Sunday afternoons at Starbucks when Amanda found herself wishing CIA Black Ops training was on her resume. Nevertheless, she'd acquired some mad special agent skills over the years on her own. When a prime table at a busy coffee shop needed to be conquered or a parking spot at the mall required claiming--there was no better person for the job than her.

Amanda's military-style Starbucks strategy looked something like this:

First: she scanned for plugins. Second: she focused on the large group table in the lounge, followed by square and rectangle tables for smaller groups. If she was desperate, she glanced towards the seats at the bar. Only after setting her radar on one of the former options would she consider a bullshit-mini-round table. Those geometric nightmares weren't made for the convenience and comfort of a drink-food-laptop combo. Third: Amanda watched people's hands as though they were mutated, five-legged mice and she was a starving vulture. If the creepy finger rodents reached for empty Starbucks containers or put away personal items, she swooped in for the kill. Fourth: positioning.