I don’t want anyone’s love in my coffee. I want a good strong cup of medium-to-dark roasted beans with just the slightest hint of sweetness, and maybe a half ounce of cream (not “non-dairy creamer” whatever the fuck that stuff is) if my stomach is feeling a little off. If I’m away from home I’ll have an Americano because it is less suspect than the drip brewed coffee that has been sitting in the pot for hours scalding at the bottom. I don’t need my name written on the side, or for it to be served by a would-be poet in man-bun, or for someone to try to upsell me on a “Pumpkin Spice Latte” because I’ve never once woke up and though to myself, “Yes, yes I do need to drink something that tastes like a potpourri candle smells.”
Starbucks is the cult that combines the slightly off-kilter weirdness of Jehovah’s Witness with the marketing savvy of Philip Morris. I do not trust them, not one bit, and I certainly don’t want to give them my true name or any chance to collect a sample of my DNA.
Stranger