Most days I dream about a customer punching me in the face.
No, not because I have whatever Please-Beat-the-Shit-Out-of-Me fetish Rihanna seems to be suffering from.
But because I would love to go full-force spider monkey crazy on some mulleted son-of-a-bitch who asks me if I'm retarded or tells me I've got "tig ol' bitties" and being punched first is the only way I can legally go about it, I believe.
If you can think of another way, please share it with me in the comments.
But day-dreaming about getting assaulted by a grown man only fills so much of the day and the rest is pretty much assholes on parade.
Basically it's been a rough couple of days to not really be a barista. It's making me want to become not really an alcoholic.
But what can you do? Times are tough. Your journalism degree might as well be written in crayon for all the good it's doing you. And making over-priced coffee drinks pays the bills and provides health insurance until someone decides they want to pay you for being snarky or to talk about blowjobs.
It's not that bad, I guess. But still some days I can't help but think "I wish a Mother Fucker would. I've got 27 dysfunctional years that has left me chock full of crazy. Come at me, bro!"
And I promise, if and when this goes down, it will be recorded and put on the internet.
Because I'm a considerate person--a considerate and extremely angry person.