Listen, bitch. I want a mocha. Not a latte, and I want it made with skim milk. Not soy milk, or whole milk, or even 2% milk. Skim fucking milk, okay? And I�d be really fucking retarded if I wanted heavy cream with a bucket full of sugar infused and whipped on top of my skim milk beverage.
She rings it up as a latte. I say I wanted a mocha, she nods. Um... Why is she putting vanilla in my cup? What�s the soy milk out for? �Excuse me, ma�am, I just really wanted a mocha with skim milk..� She replies, �Yes sweetheart, I heard you the first time.� Um.. so uh.. yeah.
At this point I�m fantasizing about pumping a copper and lead hollow point slug into her upper torso, adding a little color to the corporate industrial wannabe coffee shop.
The interesting thing about hollow point bullets is the four �blade� edges of the bullet separated by a small score. Upon impact these blades want to go opposite ways from each other, this little feud shreds the metal slug following these blades into a mushroom of satisfying destruction.
I imagine the weight of the gun in my hand as the hammer strikes the cap igniting the explosive powder encased in the shell, constrained by the steel of the gun the explosion exits in one direction, propelling the newborn god. Much like the explosiveness of your cock as you watch the latest Sylvia Saint flick, sending thousands of little furious bastards off to die in a Kleenex. Yes, much like that.
But instead, I stand there and watch her abort my mocha. The mocha I desired so much. The mocha I needed.
She puts the lid on the squirming fetus that should have been my mocha and puts it on the circular platform. The launch pad of planet Starbucks. I just stand there, refusing to acknowledge that, that horrified mess on the launch pad is mine. Of course, I�m the only one there, but I dismiss that and stand there, looking expectantly.
So she points out that, that is really mine. �Oh, no it�s not.� ... �Yes, it is.�.. NO! �No, you see, I ordered a mocha with skim milk. That�s not a mocha with skim milk.� She�s turning red, an angry red. A red that would indicate dreams of pumping slugs into my barrel chest. That�s fine. She replies �You didn�t order a Mocha.�
I laugh. A laugh like I were a god, an angry vengeful god. This laugh kicks her imaginary gun out of her hand. She backs up and carefully removes the abortion from the launch pad, moves over to the chocolate penis, all the while nervously watching me from the corner of her ignorant dull eyes. A few strokes later, chocolate deposited, the confused drink spills over the cup burning her hand. She seems not to notice but you could see pain creases in her greasy skin.
The abortion launches from the pad into my shaky hands as I stalk off.
Grandma wants to know why I�m �In a bad mood� today. She�s feeling fine, everyone should feel fine. Maybe she doesn�t remember last night? So I finally get angry enough at her insensitive questions. She told all the doctors she was fine. I tried to say otherwise, but she dismissed me. She�s FINE? FINE?! She is not fucking FINE. I AM NOT FUCKING FINE!
So I tell her why I�m upset. That I haven�t slept since 8am yesterday and that the only person that means more then me wanted to fucking die last night. Oh, well.. that was last night. Um... Yeah. She gets out of the truck and goes inside, I break down sobbing in the street, neighbors staring at me.
And to top it all off, my beverage sucks frog cocks.
Bad days and amyl nitrate,
-G