By Maude Perkins
Boy am I glad I wrote all that nice gooey stuff last week because I don’t think I’ve ever had a more trying time in terms of restraining my tongue and wishing I owned an automatic weapon than I have since then. Yesterday alone, I uttered the words “I’m going to shoot up this place” no less than once every fifteen minutes. Luckily, I work in a coffee shop and not an airport, or else I’d be writing (or not) from a torture room right now, which, don’t get me wrong, my editor would more than encourage for the sake of fresh unparalleled material.
Alas, I am just a weaponless barista, teetering on the sanity fence, ready to fall clear off the next time I am expected to read the mind of some yuppie scum on a cell phone who mouths her order to me and then gets pissed when the drink is made incorrectly. Silly of me not to assume that when someone mouths “Grande Mocha,” they really mean, “Venti non-fat, no-whip, three-pumps of mocha Mocha.” This may seem comical now, but at the time I wanted so badly to kick this woman in the fucking head. Repeatedly.
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Posted on November 19, 2006