Coffe Time

You came into the Cafe, in the Break Room

You are the 30ish, 5'5", 120#, "Blonde" girl with the spackled foundation and knock-off bronze-metallic Prada bag. You were on your cell, blabbing with an artificial "Laguna Beach" accent and blissfully absorbing the "attention" of everyone else. You were in line for about three minutes. I'd like to inform you of a few things:

1. We are not staring at you because you are hot, cool or interesting. Believe me, most of us could care less about your insipid desperation to appear cool. We care much more about you leaving.

2. The Cafe does not serve "venti latte’s". I'm sure your a little dizzy (not eating will do that) and though you were at Startbucks. You wouldn't go to McDonald’s and ask for a Whopper, you twit.

3. Make a decision before you get to the front of the line, bitch. I know… you’ve got low blood sugar so its haaaaard to decide, but settling on a fat-free muffin and a low-fat latte shouldn’t take one hundred twelve seconds. Especially since you’ve been in line for three minutes saying, "I knoooow. Ohmigod, I KNOOOWWWW! Really? I know…". And you get the same thing every day, you should be able to pull the three brain cells you have together, and put your order together. Could you please die, or at least spontaneously bleed or do something interesting and painful, like a seizure.

4. Leave a freaking tip. That little jar isn’t there to TAKE CHANGE FROM. If you need change for a paper, simply ASK the nice gal behind the counter. Don’t dig around in her tip jar for quarters while smacking your gun in the ear of your feeble-minded phone-mate. We all know you only got dollars for tips while shaking the tattered remnants of your shriveled dignity on some poll at Stars last night. Skank.

5. Get your fucking bag off my table! Just because I’m seated at the table next to the no-calorie sweeteners doesn't mean I want your greasy, cum-stained whore-sack on my paper; nudging my drink and getting dangerously close to contaminating my bagel. Not even an "excuse me" or a "do you mind". In fact, I might have let it pass had you bothered to engage some semblance of decency. But, there you go, no concern for my space.

6. It was not an accident that my coffee "fell" onto your feet while you were adding the Spleda to your beverage. I carefully planned knocking it "just so" in hopes of getting at least one of your feet covered in scalding bean juice. Did that burn a little? Don’t worry about the shoes. Pleather cleans up nicely. The sugar should get nice and sticky soon. Kind of like your thighs and tits felt before you used a handi-wipe on them this morning when you came to.

7. It was funny to watch you drop your phone, prance on your little feet, and protest with "Ohmigod! Ohmigod!" while everyone else took delight in your suffering. Did you believe me to be sincere when I said, "Oh, wow. That must hurt." Notice how I didn’t apologize? Of course you didn’t.

8. Yes, I purposely chose that moment to get up and leave. I definitely meant to bump the table and knock your bag to the floor. I admit it: I wanted to cause you as much inconvenience as possible without actually breaking any laws.

9. The people behind you in line were purposefully rude in pushing around you to get sugar, cream and stuff. They grinned when they observed my work. They wryly smiled. They hate you as much as I do. Probably as much as your mother did when she dropped you off at the orphanage.

10. Even though I had significantly slowed the pace of everyone’s day, there wasn’t a bit of anger directed at me. Rather, there was joy, gratefulness, even one woman who mouthed, "Awesome". You are disgusting and unwelcome. Move away. Get crippled. Go blind. Just leave.