The Many Wonders of Starbucks Employment. Issue 1

You weigh somewhere between three and four hundred pounds.  Your knees probably hurt.  Breathing is likely to be a slight issue at times.  Shopping for clothes is a bitch.  Sitting in cramped public spaces, even bitchier.  And you live in Miami– humidity is not your friend.

Still, you order a large/”venti” hot chocolate, white mocha, Crappuccino, whatever poor-excuse-for-a-coffee-house-beverage floats your boat.  To go along with your cookies, of course.

I’m going to ask the same question one would ask an addict of any sort– alcoholic, shopoholic, coke-head, smack junkie, pill-popper, botox freak, American Idol fan…

Whyyy?

Isn’t there a point where you start to feel your integrity melt away?  Can’t you see it trail behind you like toilet paper stuck to your shoe?  When I had a (minor) caffeine problem, I knew there was something wrong when I slammed my hands on the counter and yelled at my co-worker for holding back my espresso.  She was officially afraid of me after that (and I’m just a small animal).  I decided I didn’t want to be a scary monster.  Or gremlin, whatever.

So when you’re suckin’ down twenty to twenty-four ounces of sugar, milk, monoglycerides, carageenan, etc., on a daily basis, is there such a realization?  If so, how do you acquire the mental power to ignore it?  And even if you’re not overweight, and you’re asking for pornographically excessive caramel in your Crappuccino, don’t you see diabetes in your nightmares?  I’ll admit, this is kinda sadistic, but when that one chick comes in and asks for all that goddamn caramel, I just take the cap off the bottle and pour that shit in, because I am waiting for the day she falls into a diabetic coma.  She annoys me.

C’mon.  Stop it.

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~ by rabbit on April 13, 2009.

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