All the Reasons I Want to Murder You at Starbucks
Because I’m constantly either over-caffeinated or under-caffeinated, and Starbucks is alternately the scene of the crime or the holy land. In each case, I’m either leaving Starbucks or arriving at Starbucks at exactly the point I’m most likely to become murderous, for whatever reason.
Because you stood in line for *15* minutes and then BEGAN to contemplate your order when it was your turn. The menu board was a revelation to you at that point, as though it hadn’t been there when you were TWO people away from being served.
Because you, knowing full well that you were going to order a half-caf/half-decaf iced mocha latte made with coconut milk, went through the DRIVE-THRU. Maybe you don’t understand this about the drive-thru because perhaps you don’t understand basic linear physics, but the thing about the drive-thru is that, because we’re all trapped in our cars within this narrow channel, they have to complete one order before they can move onto the next. You held everybody up, and you don’t even care.
Because you asked the barista for recommendations, oh my god. It’s Starbucks. We all know the options. Do you ask the kid at McDonald’s how the french fries are at this place?
Because you brought your kids here. Kids don’t belong at Starbucks. It’s annoying at best and indoctrination at worst. The rest of us managed to grow up without unicorn drinks and mini-scones, and your kids will too.
Because I hate your clothes and how much time I suspect you spent curating that outfit that looks like you just threw it on.
Because I’m jealous that you don’t have to work and can sit here with your girlfriends all morning. I know I’m here with my girlfriends too, and I know I have a full-time job and just happen to be on vacation, but in my mind you do this every single day and I want to murder you for it.
Because the little cardboard wrap keeps slipping off my cup every time I pick it up and it makes me want to murder you.
Because the only good part of the lemon loaf is the icing, and there’s SO very little of it. I don’t know whose fault this is, but it’s someone’s, and that person deserves to be murdered.
Because NObody knows the difference between a flat white and a latte, and it infuriates me that you’re pretending there is one.
