In stark contrast to the lovely, lovely male baristas (baristers?) who work at my neighborhood coffee shop, there is one particular woman who, for reasons unknown to me, hates my motherfucking guts. I have griped about her on many previous occasions (such as the time when I accidentally ordered, in Starbucks lingo, a "tall," rather than a "small," coffee, and she told me they'd be happy to break my kneecaps for me if I didn't break that habit) and she's actually a big part of the reason why I don't patronize that fine establishment as frequently as I used to. (Well, that and I've come to enjoy the ritual--and the savings!--of just making my own damn coffee at home.)
At any rate, I was running late this morning and decided to stop in on my way to the train. Oh, and was I ever so pleased to see Suzy Sunshine behind the counter. I quickly and efficiently ordered a small dark-roast with room, paid for my fix, and skedaddled toward the brown line. I drank about half the cup on the train and the other half after I'd arrived at the office. Well, even though I've been at work for close to two hours already, I still feel sluggish and have developed a low-grade headache.
DO I HAVE TO SPELL IT OUT FOR YOU PEOPLE? THE WENCH SABOTAGED ME! I'M CONVINCED SHE GAVE ME A CUP OF DECAF!
Either that, or she's just got me so psyched out that my banner of paranoia and my standard of neurosis tend to fly a little higher after I've had a run-in with her. You be the judge.
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2 comments:
As a de facto judge (a law clerk), I pronounce that the evidence shows beyond a reasonable doubt that the barista sabotaged your morning victual and shall be sentenced to death by stoning.
MJO
Beaning? (Har, har.)
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