.dark roasted memoirs.

I sweat coffee—sweat it through my nostrils, and the back of my palms, and sometimes when I’m really excited, I catch the stuff peeping behind my toes. You know- the big fat one, with the delicious callous attached to the bone, Splenda sweet, but oh so good. Oh look, here comes tall latte number eight. And a Times. Just take it you asshole. Don't sit there perusing the headlines as if you haven't decided whether the events of the world are important enough for you today. And what'll it be? A latte? What a surprise. You, my friend, are dynamic. You're a firecracker, you. 

         Jesus. Well, here it comes. Frappachinos, fucking Frappachinos, the most inanely complicated beverage known to man. You might as well ask for a couple of damn mojitos while you’re at, because I would love to run across the damn street to Mangos and grab you some God damn mint leaves, because you're so damn special. Just wait. Just wait till you realize no one will ever love you if you're visible in side-view and start drinking iced black drip with two equals like the big girls do. 

            I just hope your boss finds out. I hope he brings it up at one of the "team meetings." I hope he uses you as an example and points out that you're not "working as part of a whole" or "being a link in the chain." I hope he blasts your ass so bad that all the little Starbies shit their khakis and trade in their shifts to work in co-ops and stop shaving their armpits. I hope he gets so mad that the vein in his forehead bursts and the foam slurping teeny boppers puke bitter when they see his face and run out on Starbucks so fast that they trip over the lives they left behind and fall face first into non-beverage identities, shards of real existence, personality shrapnel. I hope they all leave and you can stand here alone, shoving your damn apron through the grinder, drinking the pulp of your bane and spitting out the grounds, screaming at the top of your lungs that coffee is dead and so are we.

            Damn drones. Write my name on a cup, for I weep caramel.