Dear Pumpkin Spice Latte:
We need to talk. I feel that it’s time for you and I to discuss our relationship. Today, while trying to suppress my overwhelming desire to see you again, it dawned on me that our relationship may be bordering on unhealthy, and I think it’s time we take a break, if not part ways forever.
Every fall, you show up, out of the blue, just when I’ve finally gotten over you leaving me last winter. I tell myself each year that I’m not going to go back to you. After all, what have you ever done for me?
Sure, you’re delicious. When we first met, I didn’t plan on liking you at all. In fact, I only considered trying you because my friends said you were great. I don’t even LIKE pumpkin pie. However, like the cute but annoying hipster guy who ends up being surprisingly fabulous in bed, you surprised me and left me wanting more. After my first taste, every fall, I greedily gulp you all the way down before you’ve even had a chance to cool. Before I know it, I’m seeing you every day.
For the three or four months you’re around, it’s bliss. However, at the same time, I feel guilty after our time together. After all, you don’t benefit my life in any way. You have no nutritional value, your caffeine level is weak, at best, and you’re 470 calories. After a few weeks together, I notice myself getting fatter, refusing to admit it’s your fault. I can’t say no to you, so I punish myself just so I can see you.
Before I know it, without warning, you just disappear…again. There’s no explanation, other than the lame excuse that fall is over. You don’t even give me the courtesy of saying goodbye. I only find out you’ve left when I come to see you, and your friend, my barista says you’re “unavailable” ( like I haven’t heard THAT one before).
So, I sulk. I try to hang out your friends, but they’re not you. Your buddies, dark cherry mocha and salted caramel hot chocolate, while a good distraction, often disappear too, and I’m left with the has-beens, caramel macchiato and caffe mocha. Let’s get serious; been there, done that, like, 10 years ago. Once I’ve finally moved on, you reappear, and the vicious circle starts again.
So, Pumpkin Spice Latte, we have to call it quits. You’re great, but I just can’t do it anymore. I need someone more stable who cares about my health and my well-being. Sure, venti no-classic iced coffee is kind of boring. I get that, but at least he’s always there for me. He doesn’t flake out after Christmas. He doesn’t make me sacrifice others to see him, and he cares about my health and happiness. Ultimately, I just need something more stable.
Best of luck, PSL. I’ll miss you, and you’ll always have a place in my heart. Don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll find someone else very soon. After all, kind of a lot of people have already heard about you. Best of luck.
PS. Okay, so maybe we can see each other every once in awhile, for old time’s sake. But don’t tell anyone. I’m not that kind of girl.
While we’re on the subject….
Six Reasons Why Your Starbucks Barista Hates You
1.) Needless use of the lingo.
I'm paid barely enough to refer to a "medium" as a "grande." You have no fucking excuses to call that medium coffee a "grande bold."
2.) Using the order as a way to showcase the useless knowledge of coffee you have received from some other dumbass barista.
I don't want to hear about the "hints of cinnamon" you can detect in the Ethiopan blend.
3.) Rigidly upholding inevitable service distinctions. (It's not like we can say "no" to your inane requests.)
For example: ordering a latte and asking that it be made at 170 degrees. Or, sending back a caramel macchiato because it mixed together. The latte WILL cool and the macchiato WILL mix together. Deal with it.
4.) Suggesting "unique" drink concoctions to me.
Yes, I know that a vanilla bean frap with a little bit of Strawberry cream and a half pump of mocha tastes like a Neopolitan. I fucking work here. Your discovery is by no means anything new. And even if these mixtures weren't obvious, I still wouldn't want to hear your train of thought.
5.) Sharing information about the progress of your so-called "big project."
Sure, I'll smile, nod, and offer compliments, but that doesn't mean I'm any less convinced of the inevitable failure of your novel than your estranged spouse "Emma" is. Dear customer, she is your wife, so she can afford to be discouragingly honest with you. I, on the other hand, must make money; if I need to brown-nose, so be it.
6.) Quizzing me or offering comments about corporate performance.
I don't give a fuck about the press interview given by the CEO, and I don't know or want to know about any regional expansion plans. I am the equivalent of a bag boy. Memorizing the drink formulas is enough of a waste of my processing power.