Yes, I am going to go there. Again.
I looked like a kid on Christmas morning as I entered Starbucks yesterday morning. The giddy anticipation was written all over my face. I opened the door and the warm, rich aroma enveloped my body like a cashmere blanket. Our eyes met and I could hear angels singing: my favorite barista. He is rugged, manly, and moderately grungy with the most perfectly nappy dreads. I swear at any minute he could break out an acoustic guitar and start singing ballads à la Jason Castro. And hippie hair aside, he makes a darn good latte.
As soon as I took a sip of the caffeinated goodness the world around me began to fade away. The next thing I knew, everyone was chanting my name.
I could have reached an all-time-low when the manager forced me to stop doing a keg stand on the espresso machine. Or when he explained that my Starbucks Gold card did not cover the round of shots I had ordered for everyone in the
bar shop. But instead, I purchased a pound of French Roast and left with both a complimentary cup of the daily brew and my dignity still intact. Because after all, restraint is for lightweights.