Starbucks, you pain my heart!
UPDATE: 1:22 p.m.
So after writing this, I made the trek across the street to see what was up. Apparently the girl who was supposed to open up had slept in. Like 3 hours?! When I mentioned the sheer pandemonium that had gone on outside the locked doors, the cashier/guy/barista shrugged and added that she was in love; what else could they do. In my zombie state, what can I do but be amused? I am sipping my very hot, very black Americano, and slowly I feel the life-blood coming back to my veins.
P.S. After re-reading my earlier post, I realize that there are parts of is that may be misconstrued and sound perverted. This was not my intention; it was written in sheer innocence. But I cannot help but wonder what my subconscious was thinking of as I wrote it. You'll see.
I sadly cannot function without a Grande Americano in the morning, even though I have finished my Breakfast Blend, brewed at home, an hour before. I think the BB just lubricates my throat for something real. Something black, and strong, and so perfectly exquisite. And so I was forced to get my Americano at the crappily-run Second Cup in my building, made by students who haven't the foggiest idea of what to do with an espresso machine.
Last week, I had a "Black Apron" Coffee Master expertly preparing my Americano (she is nowhere to be seen this week -I think they just brought her in to show current average Green Apron basistas a thing or two... Not that I'm dissing the green aprons!); this week, it seems, they have gone to shit.