Second Floor Cafe is the bastard child of an unholy trinity between T.G.I.F's, a Christian bookstore, and an Emma Watson fan club. The smarmy charm holds you fixed in its lattice like snowflakes of smug vaginal angel exfoliate. Whitney Houston's vocal chords haunt the rafters. Swimming in the aerosol aether of tinseled trash and glittered cheer. Suspended like myths. Merriness is ordered, geometrically presented, and then dissected with phone cams and small forks. The patronage feels strictly amusement park, master-slave. A bucolic safari of endangered clichés, cannibalizing itself like big game hunting irony. Fuck you Jesus, we're here for Santa.