all i want is great coffee

The guy who makes my coffee every morning, at one of those many hip and cool coffee shops near my part time job is a healthy young male in his late 20s, presumably very heterosexual and full of stickum. His accent hints at a lebanese-middle eastern descent, supported by the regional pop music from such areas he enjoys reenacting to the bewildered patrons of East London. I am really fond of him, because of his overall positive attitude and enthusiasm for life. He has shiny curly hair, as if laborious thoughts simply bounce off him. Every morning my numb deportment is briefly punctured by his vitality, his friendly smile.

I always get a Macchiato which is basically a gay version of an espresso, just as a Gibraltar is a lesbian latte. Whenever I see him on the way back, on my way to my second job, or on rare occasions outside of our respective jobs, he calls out “Hey, Macchiato!” as he does not know my name. To him, I am simply Macchiato. To him, somebody else is just Cappuccino. He lives in a simple world, a world most likely comprising with easy vag-action, a world I envy.

But our relationship is not without fault, and here is where my problem lies. Notice the chart above, on the x-axis,  you will see the glorious days (M-F) of the work week where I operate between both workplaces (weekends are when I offer my services to the retail establishment exclusively.) Stare at the days long enough and observe how they resemble abstract steps of a very tall ladder leading to a heaven one aims to finally die at. The y-axis presents qualitative numbers commonly referred to as “on a scale of one to ten.” Take this week, just one week in this farce that is my life. You will notice that, on average, the quality of the coffee our friend makes is a steady 8 out of 10—ten being more of a conceptual never-manifested number. Now, please notice that Wednesday’s wonderful 9.4 score is paired with a 3.0 (out of 10) score of the woman who was in line before me, whose role shall be known as the “preceding patron.” All these numbers serve one point: there is an indirect proportion between a woman’s attractiveness, if she is a preceding patron, and the quality of coffee rendered from spunk boy. On Wednesday—so my theory goes—our Balkan buddy, who enjoys flirting with the female customers, was presented little choice but to concentrate fully on making my Americano (e.g. “packing” the ground, “pulling” the shot, incorporating the steamed water, negotiating the timing) being deplete of any desire to flirt with the, to be cruel, unfortunate looking woman. If the woman is simply modest looking (6.5 – 7.0), then the coffee is standard good. I have to thank Wednesday’s troll for the amazing cup of coffee. If that seems cruel, I point you towards God, who is responsible for organizing that face as well as my own ugly mug.

Conversely, we shall examine Thursday, the day my coffee was fucking awful (2.1). It was way too thin, from a delinquent “pull,” a dreary brown pool of coffee flavored water, just a tad stronger than tea. And behold—why, might we ask, was the coffee so horribly executed? Because our Balkan dude here had his dick ravaging at his zip inside his trousers whilst talking on > on > on to the gorgeous woman (9.6, perfect face, starry eyes) whose coffee he was giving way more attention to. I would have helped him with a cream joke, but I was upset. Call me mister cockblock, but I just feel customer service ought to transcend pussy.

I am not a bitter person, but prefer my coffee without too much sugar. Sweetness might get you a better cup of coffee, or even a girl's number, but it takes a truly strong minded man to stand in line, look at the perfectly plum bottom before him, and think "to hell with this world".