But once in awhile, like a good dog tearing up the kitchen garden bin, I give in to my Inner Trickster, my Darker Half, and if you're rolling some d20s, my Chaotic Evil side.
There was the time I was cut off in traffic on a fine summer day by a girl who rushed in front of me only to be first at the red light. I watched her place her mascara wand to her eye in her rearview mirror, and just when that wand was at its most precarious, I found my hand tapping the horn, the dachshund bark of my car jolting her, the mascara wand jamming dead center into her contact lens. I was almost as surprised as she was, that my timing was so on target. Not nice. No, I wasn't nice that day.
And so yesterday. My vice is simple, but still an indulgence, I have to have a cup of coffee from Starbucks every single day. Don't talk to me about making it at home, it doesn't work. Don't talk to me about switching to McDonalds (acidic dishwater) or Dunkin Donuts (don't even try to get a Hindu to make coffee, it's not genetically possible, and it's also not a racist statement if it's true.) I have to have at least one Pike's daily roast, with whole milk, and if it's raining, I'll need another at 2pm. Or I will kill. Without it, my brain wraps under my skull in an adder's coil, the grey dullness spreading, getting worse, the fog blocking every synapse. Starbucks has unlocked some sort of unique trigger for my caffeine receptors. I've tried quitting. It's beyond painful. Fuck you, give me my coffee.
There are three Starbucks on my morning commute to work. Each one has a team of baristas, and each member of all three teams are trained to know that when I get out of the car, they can start pouring my drink. To be specific, it's a Grande sized Pike's brew in a Venti cup, leaving me about an inch of room as I take mine with double milk, or "Boston" as they call it in places metropolitan. It's a fast order, it's not fussy, it's lean, it's not full of sugar. Pull me my drink and swipe my card, I am done.
So I pull in the lot, and as I get out of the car, a gaggle of "Jersey Shore" nitwits rush to get in front of me. Christ. I hate getting cut off. And, of course, being seventeen, they all order the 4000 calorie Muffin Top special, an iced latte with whipped cream with caramel drizzle. Just to really add the bitch tits, the guys order theirs with soy. Why is EVERYONE so fucking fat? It'll tell you why. IT'S BECAUSE THEY GRAZE ON HIGH FRUCTOSE ALL DAY LIKE DAIRY COWS. Lord.
As I'm waiting for the Douche Patrol to figure out what they want, I overhear one of them say how much he needs to use the restroom, and his friend does too, (what, are we girlfriends now?) but they decide they're going to wait until after they get their drinks.
I wait a beat, and two beats, until they're distracted, so *I* go to the restroom. Only, I don't go to the Ladies' room, I go to the Gents'. As I'm in there, one of the Tinkle Twins comes over, and finding the door locked, walks away. I wash up, and leave. The restrooms are not visible to the rest of the room. Tinkle Twin assumes that I've come out of the Ladies'. He's going to wait for a guy to come out of the restroom, right? And, being a dick, he's not going to use the "girl's " room, and he's not going to try to jiggle the locked restroom door a second time. I order my drink, add my milk at the little drink station, and watch the two of them squirm. As I leave out of the second door hear him moan "Man! What the fuck is that guy doing in the john?! I gotta go!" *snort!
I am bad!
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