I’ve spent five fifty on this frothy thing, and I don’t feel I’m getting my goddamned money’s worth out of the transaction, if you’ll pardon my language.
The whole point of coming into this nouveau neo-hipster Pier 1-decorated coffee bar, with paintings by local artists proudly displayed in the hallway next to the bathroom, was to spend five minutes not thinking about what a fucked-up place this country has become. I just want the goddamned peace and tranquility that a pumpkin spice latte is supposed to bring, and it’s not doing the trick for me.
I know that true inner peace comes from meditation and lifestyle changes and if you’re dating a sugar daddy like Janine and can afford a trip to goddamned Tibet, you go spend a week with the Lama and get a fucking certificate and some beads, big deal, but hey. My enlightenment budget is limited to a fucking latte. So it had better goddamn well be a fucking transcendental experience of autumnal joy and comfort or you can forget about a tip to pay for your latest tattoo, barista girl.
The bottom line is, get the fucking pumpkin spice jar off the shelf and keep pouring that stuff on my latte. I can still see the goddamned foam, and my future evaporating along with it. FIX IT.