Triple grande caramel mocha with a shot of self-esteem, please.

While passing out cups of java joy, I couldn’t help but notice you keep conversations brief and cordial for most customers – respecting their morning zombie-like haze. Yet, day after day you have delivered a shot of insults with my beverage. I don’t seem to recall asking for a tall-half-caf- vanilla-make-fun-of-my-hair- latte. Nor did I ask for a grande-criticize-my-outfit-mocha. What did I ever do to you mister Starbucks man. I apologize if I somehow managed to offend you with my order, but I find your vicious attacks are very unnecessary.

I’m willing to let a few insensitive comments pass before 7 a.m., but I must draw the line. Consider today your warning… the line has been drawn. Next time you stand there with your graying hair and expanding beer belly, be careful as you inform me that I that I look very old – old enough to be your mother. I also suggest that you choose your words wisely when telling me I would be lucky if I could ever find a boyfriend, and nobody would marry me. Once you hand over that cup, you’ve fueled a beast and I warn you – there’s no turning back. I can, and I will go Arabian Mocha Java on you, sir.

My sarcasm is typically intended for good humor, however you’re playing with fire. I’m fully prepared to unleash a flurry of hurtful jabs in your direction – Ralphie and Scutt Farcus style. So hand over that cup, and nobody will get hurt. One more poorly chosen line from you and I’ll show you why there is in fact a reason to cry over spilled milk.