Dear Starbucks,
This is in regards to Christmas Day, 2012. 10:07 a.m., receipt #686823.
I woke up at 6:30 a.m. after a stiff night of tossing and
turning. Maybe it's arthritis, or bone cancer, or the crater in my 30-year-old mattress. I don't know, and I've given up caring. Anyway, I padded out to my messy kitchen, creaky bones and all, to put the water on to boil. Once that was done, I made
a pour-over cup of Starbucks espresso -- but it totally sucked, likely because I used the same grounds I used yesterday, and the same paper filter I’ve used for
about a week.
Poverty, in case you don't know, sucks — particularly in this season
during which everyone seemingly has pictures of food on
the internet. It makes a heart bitter. At various times, I’ve found myself
perusing Facebook and sneering, fuck you,
turkey. Fuck you, sweet potatoes and marshmallows. And cookies? Well, you can
take your cute little Santa faces and go straight to hell. I know. I endear no one
with this confession, least of all myself. I am a depressed asshole. People
like me don’t deserve the internet.
Do we even deserve coffee? I don’t know, but by 6:45 a.m., I
began planning my trip to Starbucks. I received three gifts this year — all of
them from barely known acquaintances — and all of them gift cards to your store.
Apparently, people think that coffee will imbue chronically penniless and
depressed assholes with the holiday spirit.
(Holiday spirit? Screw that. And screw the pictures
of obliviously spoiled six-year-olds squealing over their shiny new iPhones and
Kindle Fires. I mean, WTF? I sold my plasma a couple of weeks — I saved countless lives — and all I got was enough to buy a donut
and a bag of dog food. I hate kids with parents. It’s so damn unfair.
Anyway, at around 7:00 a.m., I began the self-talk that
would allow me to unwrap the static-filled blanket from around my nutritionally
deprived but still lumpy body. It’s Christmas Day, I said to my pessimistic
self. Surely the $2 of gas I bought for the ’94 Honda two weeks ago isn’t all gone. Surely, there’s some fucking
miracle that will make my ugly little car run on sunshine and wishes.
I considered my clothes. Baggy, red plaid flannel pants and
a military t-shirt that, ironically, said “Pride.” Fuck you, military; fuck you, pride. I decided that if I added a
contrasting green hoodie from my college days (Go Spartans), it would be a perfect outfit to have to walk the three miles home, in case the Honda ran out of gas. It would be, quite deservedly, humiliating. Cars
full of holiday cheer, bratty children, and Tupperware containers full of more food than I've eaten all month would whoosh
by me, their occupants likely laughing at the exaggerated size of my ass. They’d feel sorry
for the stoic dog at the end of the homemade rope leash, and talk about how some people shouldn’t own pets. They’d
shake their heads and say, “Oh, that poor thing. I hope it at least got a
decent meal today.” Never mind that the little prince eats better than I do.
I’m an asshole, but do the math: Big
brown eyes. Soul-sucking guilt. Plasma.
Dog Food.
At 7:15, I’ve got the hoodie on and start looking at shoes.
I want to wear sandals, but opt for boots in case I have to walk. I can’t find
socks, but who cares. Count your fucking
blessings, I remind myself. There’s
people all over the world who would kill for a ten year-old pair of Mukaluks,
or whatever the hell they’re called. Fuck you for not being grateful, you
bastard.
Exhausted by all the decisions, I slump onto the couch with
my beat-up laptop. Twitter is alight with Instagram photos of diamond bangles
and Jesus memes. I get lost in the stories of other people, with their matching
family PJ’s and quiche breakfasts. I fight the urge to play “whose life sucks
harder” with the two or three other depressives online, one who’s battling a
public case of gout. Oh yeah, gout? Big effing deal. At least you have health
insurance and food. If I had a smart phone or camera — or proximity to one of
those spoiled-ass six year olds who have both — I’d take a picture of my empty refrigerator
and I think the whole damn internet would agree that I WIN — even before I show
you the bottle of Dawn dish soap that's in my shower stall, BECAUSE I
CAN’T AFFORD A FUCKING BAR OF IRISH SPRING.
After winning the loser game on Twitter, at least in my head, I went to
Facebook where one of my “friends” got a $600 espresso machine from her husband
for Christmas. I want that machine and that kind of partner. I wallow in self-pity for
a few moments, but then realize that I’m alone only because I’m hideously ugly.
It makes me feel better to understand that it’s not just a myriad of character flaws that
keeps me single, but a horrifically deformed appearance, and that people are
too shallow to see the beauty inside. Fuck
you, shallow people. Also, fuck you, fake Stuart Smalley self-esteem.
Also? Fuck you, pictures of French toast breakfasts and prime rib
lunches. I’m hungry, I’m starving. I
want something warm. I want some love, too, but that’s not on the Starbucks
menu and even if L-O-V-E were to show up at my door right now, bearing gifts of
comfort, sex, and a lifetime of “no, it was great, really” I’d be too
embarrassed to let it in. I haven’t cleaned this place for weeks. My hair is
static-ky and sticking out in 20 directions, and I’m a fucking depressed mess
whose head is firmly lodged up an oversized ass that just happens to smell like
clean dishes.
By 9:54 a.m., I have finally screwed up the courage to leave
my apartment. The dog is excited. I’m sure he thinks we’re going to the dog
park, but I don’t have enough gas for that. I try to explain the situation to him, but
it’s like he’s deaf. He runs between my legs and out the door, and then sits
by the car door, wagging his tail like a total fucking dork. I love my dog.
He’s an idiopathically happy idiot. Opposites attract, and it’s like we were made
for each other — I disappoint him continuously, he keeps me from becoming a
total agoraphobic.
I drive the three miles with my hands tight on the wheel,
praying to the gods of empty fuel tanks, and devising a plan. I have a few old
coffee beans at home that I’ve been saving up for a special occasion just like this, probably enough for one cup of
fresh coffee, and a barely-used a paper towel that can act as a new filter. Starbucks
is closing early, I can only make this one trip, and since this is the extent
of my dietary intake today, I need get my order just right.
When I arrive to the speaker, I call out my order quickly —
a Venti latte, a Grande latte (to microwave later), and a side of cream of
sugar (to make those old, stale beans more palatable.)
There are two cars ahead of me. I shut off my engine to save
gas. The going is slow, my stomach is rumbling, and my stupidly happy dog has
finally gotten the message. He’s slumped in the back seat, looking like But it’s Christmas, you asshole. You could
at least take me to the dog park. You’d have had enough money for gas if you
didn’t have that burrito at Taco Bell a couple of days ago, you selfish bastard.
Fuck you, dog. I love
you, but fuck you.
The cars finally pull ahead and I start the engine. It roars
to life like a poor person’s miracle.
A girl dressed in red takes my gift card. “And here’s your
Venti,” she says with a smile.
I am impatient as she rings up my order. I watch the
barista, who’s not yet done with the Grande. In my head, I am panicking over
gas, lamenting my life, and feeling bad about my dog, who surely deserves a better companion. One minute, then two goes
by.
Finally, the Grande is in my hand and the barista is wishing
me a happy holiday.
“Cream and sugar?” I remind her.
“Oh yes, I forgot.”
She grabs sugar packets and asks the person behind her to
get some cream. I watch another employee pour some 2% milk in a cup, which she hands to the cashier, who hands it to me.
“That’s milk,” I tell her, as my car sputters.
“No, it’s cream,” she insists.
“I watched her pour it,” I reply, but suddenly it feels like
the whole world is about to crash down around my shoulders. I am convinced that
she’s looking at me — this ugly person with the freakish hair, dirty car,
and sad-ass dog — and thinking, fuck
you and your cream. I’m working on Christmas, and
you’re a cheap bastard who won’t even leave a tip.
I pulled off suddenly then, leaving her holding the cup in her hand. I hate
milk, you see, and I hate being lied to. I hate milk in my coffee, almost as much as I hate decaf. I hate that feeling of wanting to cry for stupid, unmanly reasons. I hate that I’m running on empty, and my next
paycheck is seven days away. I hate that I’m hungry. I hate Christmas puppies, i-Everything, and everything-I
don’t have. I hate roast beef and pies and scalloped potatoes. I hate happy
families and people in love.
I also hate that my Starbucks order didn’t hold me past
noon. I drank those tasty suckers down, one right after another. Fuck you, tears.
All of this to say, Starbucks, that I am sorry.
I am sorry
that I was an asshole to your fresh-faced, smiling, festive barista. I
shouldn’t have been. I should have polite, even if it meant running out of gas and walking home. I
should have sucked it up enough to just take the fucking milk.
Instead, I let that milk represent everything else. I let that milk say, “No, you’re not worthy of cream even
on this hallowed day. I hope you run out of gas waiting. I hope you walk home
as the disgrace you are. Why don’t you clean your kitchen? Do some laundry? WHY
DON’T YOU QUIT BEING DEPRESSED AND DO SOMETHING CONSTRUCTIVE?”
That’s quite a lot to put on an ounce of milk and a smiling
(even if she was lying) face, but there you have it. I’m an asshole.
I don’t deserve you (and/or you deserve better.) I will
punish myself next week with some off-brand decaf, which I'll drink without the benefit of whiskey or half-and-half.
Sincerely,
Monroe