A total eclipse of my espresso

Courtesy of Giphy.com

Solar eclipses have historically brought about fear, anxiety, and crazy ass ideas from some crazy ass human beings. In some cultures, it is the end of days and identified as the day that demons thirst for the fruits of life. Overall it has been defined as a bad omen. At 6’o clock in the morning, I was that lustfully thirsty monster seeking the beverage of life and immortality. The bitter charcoal substance that soothes my belly and quenches my distaste for humanity. I am not specific to any flavor of coffee but rather the right amount of bitterness. On the day of the eclipse, however, I was parched of all resources. My precious godlike Elixir sent from nature herself had depleted. How careless could I be not to realize I was out of stock. As a warehouse inventory manager, I apparently spend too much time at work. I can not think of a worse day to be without coffee than Monday, today, tomorrow, and yesterday.

Why didn’t I run to the local coffee shop and quench my vampire like thirst? Well, it’s quite simple; I could not muster up enough motivation to tolerate the incompetence of the people around me or on the way to work. Coffee does not give me energy; it gives me the patience to put up with people and things. Inanimate objects have found a reason to disturb me with their very existence. Mindless human beings should be classified as things or inanimate objects they are much alike. With the lack of patience, happiness, and coffee it took me about an hour and fifteen minutes to comb my hair, shave my face and get dressed for work. 
I’m never late for anything, and if I am, it’s a mystical force of nature beyond the powers of coffee beans. Even on my worst days, like this last Monday, I am not late but rather a minute within my clock in time. I work in a warehouse on an hourly wage; no one cares if I am one minute late or an hour late. Apparently, I am a millennial, and it’s expected. Whatever, the hell that means. It is like the saying goes “Timeliness is next to Godliness and Godliness is next to Coffee.”

Upon my daily routine at work, a co-worker approached me with an abundance of questions; “You got into some trouble last night? You look a little hungover, buddy.” There are only a few things I can assume; this guy wants to get punched in the face, or he mildly has autism. I of course went with the better option and furthered the conversation by asking if he had taken his autism pills this morning. After asking my coworker this question, there were some facial reactions I could not properly define on his face. None of which I can rightfully describe because I lack such abilities when my blood to caffeine ratio is zero. I will say I do realize some people consider me an asshole when I have not had coffee, so I tried to relate to his situation. Apologetically, I explained how I am in a similar situation as I ran out of coffee this morning and I am sure coffee to me is as autism medication is to him. I later realized this did not settle his nerves or someone had heard me throw around the word “autistic” because I found myself summoned to the Human Resources office. I explained how as a child my parents thought I suffered from abnormal social behavior until they introduced me to coffee. Coffee seemed to subdue my hurtful comments; so in many ways, I could relate to someone with autism. To my surprise, the Human Resources manager was not enthralled with my explanation. I agreed to apologize to my co-worker as long as I could step out of the office and get a coffee.

The little patience I had for the people around me was dwindling. After apologizing to my co-worker via email. I rushed over to the nearest coffee shop. Unfortunately, I had left at the most inopportune time. The dreaded eclipse was almost upon us. If I could count the number of mindless people on the road at that point, I would have run out of numbers and years of my life. Finally, after zig-zagging through stopped traffic, I reached the coffee shop. The local establishment served a medley of well-roasted beans with numerous flavors from all across the globe. The dark foreign blends provide my soul with the exact amount of bitterness my heart desires. The coffee is the pleasant experience while the hipster juveniles that run the place are not.

In a few ways some people consider me a people person, but in most ways, a plethora of people would find a reason as to why I am not. The grimace on the 17-year-old barista’s face reminded me of how many unpleasant conversations I have had in that café. Autumn of last year I almost choked on my vomit when they haphazardly handed me a pumpkin spice latte instead of my usual Americano. The eclipse was upon us, how could I expect to get what I had ordered?

Me: *enunciating my words* “Can I have three espresso shots in a 16oz cup topped with hot water?”
Barista: “You want a triple Americano?”
Me: “Exactly! You remember!”
Barista: “Ow! Uhhh! Can I- uhh have your order?”
Me: “What? Again?”

BOOM! The Barista fell to the floor with the cash register on top of her. Obviously, I am more thirsty than confused; I reached out to the nearest barista to take my order. She frantically threw out what sounded to be profanity. I decided to speak a little louder because at this point people were more concerned about calling the ambulance than they were my order. The third and final barista approached me to tell me to shut-up. I was appalled, so I displayed my frustration. In a rather gentleman like fashion, I leaned as far over the counter as possible until they acknowledged serving me.

At long last, the third barista handed me a cup that was filled with the most disturbing substance. He seemed to apologize for the atrocious concoction by annotating it was free. A wretched concoction that did not brighten my spirits. My triple espresso was tainted with milk and what appeared to be sugar. I slowly handed the cup back to the barista. I recommended he give it to the 17-year-old barista who had collapsed from a diabetic stroke. I made sure to note she would have a quick and painless death minus the toxic taste from the tainted coffee. When my comment was met with a distasteful glare, I again looked at the brighter side of things by saying, “After her death, you could hire someone who knows what they are doing.”

Fast forward to the present, I have been banned from the only local coffee shop that serves its own roasted beans, and Human Resources has relocated me so that my interaction with other living beings is at a minimum. On the plus side, I have managed to order some high-quality Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee (should arrive tomorrow), and I still hate inanimate objects.

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