I hate it when they do these limited time edition specialty drinks which probably all taste alike anyway. Admittedly, though, while part of me is disgusted… another part of me is curious. Curious about whether it’d look like a giant muddy mural version of a Dexter spatter if I bought twelve and pitched each in turn against the wall of the café while Nora Jones droned quietly in the background. There’s no part of me who likes these cold blended fat fests anymore. I mean, sure. I did in the old days. But now, even these days when I buy a warm soy cuppa whatever, I’m disgusted with myself. Mostly because I know it has all that crap in it that’s probably slowly nomming away at my tummy organs and stuff silently. But less silently, I’ve already seen its other effects on my mind, soul, body, and bank account. The addiction’s no better than any other. And when I see it reflected in the patrons all standing beside me by the pickup side of the bar, like a pack of junkies waiting for our dose’a methadone, it’s even worse. They’re horrible to the baristas and it makes me want a genuine methadone-for-Starbucks. It also makes me feel especially judgmental because I know that feeling well – where you want to scald the face of the barista who made your tall frothy crack to go crappily for making you make her make it all over again. Generally, I avoid giving into these feelings. But that I have them, even, makes it so much worse.

And the other day, I got a haunting glimpse into my future.

A craggy old hag stood before me, waiting for her frap to be prepared. It should be mentioned that had it not been for the pickup surface of the bar between the two of them, she’d’ve been inches from the barista’s face. That means she had plenty of time and earshot to let her know what kind of a lid she wanted. What’d she do instead? Wait for her to not put on a round lid, hand it to her with a smile, and then… let shit hit the fan. Suddenly, her already cronely face like some witch out of a Hayao Miyazaki film, unhinged – revealing several rows of razor teeth. Demon wings sprouted from either side of her spine. She gripped the barista and as storm clouds and lightning descended upon us all, we stood and watched her scream a wind gall inducing auditory horror of every vocal chord cacophonously sounding off at once. As the young worker’s feet lifted from the ground, the werewolf of a woman intoned in a Luciferan voice that quaked the earth beneath us – not unlike Aphex Twin’s Come to Daddy video: “I SAID ROUND LID!!!!1”

After the windows had shattered and the dust had settled, the barista politely complied and apologized.

The moment was a traumatic epiphany. And, much like any near death experience, I came away from it with a renewed outlook and lots of questions to ask myself. Who hates their life that much that they look forward to the fcckups of others so that they can go off on them in such a manner? I’ll tell you who. Addicts like me. And that bish some coven’s missing. It’s a Pavlovian response the moment we step into the shop or pull up to the drive through. We can’t wait. We can’t be stopped. Not until we stop ourselves. And god help you if you get in our way or eff up our order even slightly. No junkie likes to get shorted when the drugs are this pricey.

That’s why, I’m happy to say… I’ve been drinking less Starbucks this week.

And I’m really proud of myself. Honestly.

Cuz I’m sure this third cup of the poor man’s version I just bought from “Buzz” is way better for me…

*Note the shaking hand