No, I don’t want to tell you my name. It’s intrusive, it’s irritating. It does not, for me, generate any bonhomie, so just fucking cut it out. If you keep asking I’m just going to give you the most ridiculous name I can think of, like “Xarnax, the Galactic Overlord,” then roll my eyes when you completely mis-spell, and mis-state it on my paper cup there.Obviously I’m PRE-coffee, which is why I’m HERE, genius. Do you seriously think that’s the best time to be screwing around with me? Just make my damned mocha with as little chatter as humanly possible, ok? Idiot.
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On a side note, has anyone else ever thought that these people who micro-order at Starbucks are those with absolutely no control over any other aspect of their lives?
“Yes, I’d like a half-caf, non-fat, extra hot capp, with three pumps of vanilla, two pumps of hazelnut and five grains of cinnamon. Oh, and if you can make my kids listen to me and my husband find me attractive again, too, that’d be greaaaat.”
Sure, whatever keeps your head out of the oven, lady.