Sometimes I get in line behind a Starbucks noob and a kooky desire to scream maniacally at them wells up inside of me.
“Oh, a tall. What’s a tall? Is that like a medium or a large?”
“What’s an Americano? How much would it be for just one and a half shots of espresso. Can you even do that?”
“What’s a Frappuccino like?”
I want to yell at this person. I want to demand why they have no effing clue what a Frappuccino is. I want to ask “What is wrong with you?”
My Starbucks addiction is a very tangible expression of something I don’t like about myself and other Canadians. We like pretty packages, shiny labels, fancy names (but not too fancy), and double plastic wrapped consistency. We like it so much that we damn well expect it.
A Starbucks noob annoys me because I am this close to satiating my superficial caffeine addiction and a deeper and far more disturbing addiction to buying shit…and the noob is impeding me. The nerve of some people.
So, in hopes of not having to face my consumeristic dark side, I’d just like to say that if you don’t know what a tall is, then go find some locally owned artisan coffee house run by hippies who know their coffee roaster by name and are just waiting to explain everything about your $5 coffee to you so that you can fully appreciate it’s delicious excessiveness. Me and the Starbucks barista have a schedule of soul-sucking to keep.