Is the coffee subtly asking me to fuck off?

I walk into a cafe, the air seems a little foreign, a little tense I would say. With eyes made of laser beams shooting out intention, I step in; I will finish my ten-year series, no matter what, I do finish my chem paper 2 then I go out. As the doors swing open, the lively, exuberant and youthful chatter fills the air. Overflowing with sheer determination, I proceed to the counter, “ An americano please thank you.”; the cheapest caffeinated drink, and in my favourite colour, black. Young, not really that dumb, and attempting to be frugal.

I settle into my little spot, sandwiched between China and Japan, how great. Actually, it is really, honestly pretty swell; I don’t understand whatever the fuck both parties are saying. My head rushes with endorphins as I reach for my ten-year-series; “productivity…” my Singaporean soul orgasms lightly.

“It is because of people like you that’s why cafes cannot make money.”, Internally I flinch with a shiver of guilt. Am I, as a student, going to single-handedly bring this place down? Sounds pretty sick. Onto work.

The waiter, barista, whatever the people who are in the cafe called, approaches me, with great stealth and speed. Within minutes, the black glory is delivered. He stuns me, breaking my intent attempt at conversation deciphering; that prick.

“Americano ?” , I smile and look at him politely. Reticently, I thank him and gently guide him with a universal open palm gesture to tell him to put my coffee at two thirds from the back, on the left side of the table; how ruthlessly efficient can I be? I chuckle to myself.

I lift the ceramic chalice, also known as a mug, to my focused face, unwaveringly, without trembling, I take a sip of the economy’s favourite word; productivity.

“Is the coffee asking me to fuck off ?”, evidently, I inferred from the sour and acidic taste, that bitter and mild nuance of dissent.

Nah, couldn’t be; why would they?

Then it sparked the idea for this post.

I realised that I may or may not have been projecting my own expectations, adding meaning to almost insignificant things, to fit my faulty little conjecture.

Realising the greater implications of this seemingly insignificant event was a mild epiphany of sorts, at least a reminder for me that expectations, relentlessly and ruthlessly, colour our world.

You get what you expect, most of the time. How about some confirmation bias for ya eh.

As usual, my stories are usually didactic in nature; watch your expectations, that’s what your eyes use.

Follow this medium for more didactic shenanigans. ;p

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