There's a pimp in the coffee shop.

It's been a tough week. Usually, I can look forward to a bit of sleeping in before heading off to work at noon. In accordance with the rest of the week's rhythm, I had another academic obstacle awaiting me: Quantitative Reasoning Quiz. Blech.

After work I head back uptown to slave away at the bookstore. Peeling and resticking stickers. Changing the prices on what seemed like fifty bajillion books.

The perk to my Fridays comes in a half hour increment. Usually around 3:30, I head out of the store to one of the coffee shops a block up the street. Starbucks, if I prefer to sip tea, read, and listen to some cool wanna-be-hipster tunes. Dean and DeLuca, if I want to pay a ridiculous amount of money for a small bit of food to tide me over before I can head home and eat some real dinner. Today, I went to Dean and DeLuca.

Much to my pleasant surprise, the only treat waiting for me at this coffee shop wasn't a tiny slice of potato pizza. Oh, no. Oh joyous day. I got to see a real live pimp. Fully equipped with his sweet talking (in)ability, magazines entitled "Terrorize!", and gaudy gold.