Updates and Lifemates.

Yo! It has been forever since I've posted anything and while I wish I had a good excuse (superhero duties?) I've mainly just been busy with life away from the internet. But because I didn't want you guys to think that I jumped off a roof after serving one too many frappuccinos, I thought I'd give you all some updates/excuses as to why I've been MIA.

Without further ado ...

1.) I moved. There is a certain kind of hell that can only be experienced by putting all of your shit in boxes, moving those boxes one city block away, and then unpacking those boxes. It makes you reevaluate all of your choices as a consumer. Why do I have this many scarves when I live in Florida? Why do I own 3 crockpots? I could have sent several children to college with the amount of shit I've purchased at Sephora! And if you're anything like me, it makes you realize that no one told you that you need to dust more than once every 5 years. My bare apartment looked like the Wild West with dog-hair tumbleweeds rolling all about. I'm disgusting.

However, the new apartment looks great, and I'm currently best friends with my duster--which should last about another week or so.

2.) I'm getting married. I've spouted ever so eloquently on this very blog that I would rather share a needle with Kesha than tie myself to someone for eternity. I'm currently holding the record for longest engagement ever (9 years. Suck it, Brangelina.) But the dude I share a bathroom with (aka my fiancé, Matt) finally wore me down and we set a date. October 18, 2014. Which is soon as fuck, so I've been busy pissing off family members (we're having the smallest wedding ever) and stress eating Little Debbies like it's my job.

And finally.

3.) New Blog. I'm planning on completely rebranding I'm Not Really a Barista very soon (once I figure out how the internet works). I've mentioned before that I've felt myself growing beyond this little barista niche I've carved for myself, and I feel like it's finally time to create a new space that can grow with me as a writer and an asshole. My time as an actual barista is coming to an end sooner than later, and I'm starting to feel a little too old to bitch about lattes and talk about dicks on the internet. I'm ready to solely talk about dicks with no mention of lattes. But seriously, this blog has been my home for so long, but I think it's time for a revamp. As soon as I have more information, I promise to update all of you via this blog and every social media outlet I have. I know the 3 people who read this regularly are waiting with breath that is bated.

So that's it. I moved. I'm getting hitched. And going to quit bitching about being a barista.

Shit's about to get real, y'all!

Sunday Wrap Up: I've Been Banging the Same Guy for 11 Years.

I've had quite the eventful week, which included a man ordering the dumbest drink imaginable and me trying to sell my diploma on Craigslist.

 Let's go over some of the highlights, shall we?

I Bought a Mattress

I did one of the most adult things a person can possibly do this week--aside from expertly plucking out gray hairs and wearing control top pantyhose with running shoes, of course.

I bought a mattress.

And not just some semen-stained knock-off from Bobo's Mattresses and Stuff. I bought a piece of heaven-sent, memory-foamed goodness that I will have to turn tricks on to pay off. 

But it's worth it. This mattress supports me in a way no real-life person ever has. I'm like, "Hey Sealy, my back is kinda hurting from slinging lattes for 10 hours." And Sealy is all, "Come lay down, little momma. I'm about to contour to your body and alleviate all your aches in pains. And don't worry about it being hot as dick outside, I've got cooling gel inside of me to keep you comfortable."

It's easily the best relationship, I've ever been in. Speaking of relationships...

It's My 11 Year Anniversary

Friday marked the 11th year of my random penis funeral. Yep, 11 years since I tricked some unsuspecting dude into loving me. 

I know some people are thinking, "Wow, 11 years, how romantic", but I'm here to tell you that being with someone over a decade is exactly the opposite of romance. Matt rolled over the morning of our anniversary and gave me a high-five for sticking it out. He then went to work, and I spent the entire day debating if I should shave my legs. Spoiler alert: I did not.

Later that night, I made him homemade chicken marsala, we split a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, and talked about how awesome our new mattress is.

True love forever.

Most Ridiculous Starbucks Drink Ever

I'm not saying I work for Starbucks, but if I did, I would be super annoyed by the drink that made the news this week. 

A Texas man ordered "The Most Expensive Drink at Starbucks", which was a Vanilla Bean Frappuccino with a ton of modifiers, including 60 shots of espresso. The man would have paid $54.75 had it not been for his Gold Card reward, which made this monstrosity free of charge.

The man said the 60-shot concoction was delicious, which makes me think he has completely burned off all of taste buds smoking meth. And with approximately 4,500mg in the frappuccino, a penchant for meth would be the only way to explain why this dude's heart didn't stop beating upon completion. 

As a barista, I'm not salty that this guy decided to drink the blended equivalent of Draino, but I am salty because now everyone and their freaking mom are going to want to emulate this moron, in hopes to make it on the local news. 

Thanks a lot, dick.

So that was my week in a nutshell, guys. Got anything that can top my sexual, new mattress, 11 years of bliss someone tolerating me, or a blended heartattack? Leave it in the comments! 

I Have Shoulder Leprosy, but at Least I can Still Give HJs.

As most of you know, and by most I mean the 10-15 people who read this blog/stumble upon this blog while searching for barista porn, I hurt my shoulder while reaching out of my store's drive-thru window. Yes, I'm quite aware that this is easily the least badass way a person could injure him/herself.

Anyway, I'm in a sling and banished to taking money, misspelling people's names on cups and getting harassed by people asking, "What'd ya do to your arm?" It's almost endearing that people feign concern over my injury. I say feign because most of the exchanges go a little something like this.

Concerned Customer: What's wrong with your arm? 

Yours truly: I'm not sure exactly. I get my MRI results.. 

Not-So-Concerned Customer: That's too bad. Make sure I get my whip cream on that Pumpkin Spice Latte.

But not everyone is more concerned with their coffee milkshake than my overall well-being. Just today, I had a man who resembled ZZ Top remind me that at least I can still give handjobs with my other arm. You sir, are making lemons into lemonade. Thank you!

Speaking of handjobs, I asked my boss if I could tell people that I hurt my arm because I'm an over-zealous masturbator. She told me only if I wanted to lose my job--so I'm still debating that one. But I've been thinking about alternative stories to explain why I'm in a sling, so far I've come up with the following:

1. I have shoulder leprosy. Don't worry, I don't think it's contagious. 

2. I bought Bud Light instead of Budweiser. Please help me. 

3. It's a lot more strenuous to give yourself an abortion than one would think. 

4. I was trying to copy Miley Cyrus and fell off of a wrecking ball. 

5. Arm wrestled a shark. Don't ask. 

6. Sometimes the voices get so loud. And I didn't mean to cut off his entire penis. It just happened. 

7. They tried to take my guns. 

8. What arm? 

9. Have you ever read 50 Shades of Grey? 

10. I hyperextended my shoulder handing out a drink to a customer who didn't understand that my ass is not Inspector fucking Gadget, but don't worry I can still give handjobs.

That should get me through about 4 minutes.

Any of you deviants have some more suggestions for me? Now remember I work in a small, extremely conservative town--so the more offensive the better. If you can somehow incorporate Ronald Reagan's ghost personally injuring me, you get bonus points.

My Life as a Barista: A Photo Album

Sometimes at work people order things like this.

Or this.

And I'm like.

But they don't care. I'm sure I've played more part in people getting

 Type 2 Diabetes than every ridiculous Pinterest dessert ever made.

Speaking of Pinterest. There is no mother fucking Starbucks Secret Menu. I'm not

 saying I work for Starbucks (ignore above cups), but if I did I'd be ready

 to castrate the next person who came in asking for a

 "Bleeding Zebra" or "a one-eyed Asian."

Okay, so not everyone is bad. But for every ray of sunshine, there is some dude

 missing at least 4 teeth expressing his discontent for the word "macchiato." He

 will then proceed to explain that he's "not a homosexual and therefore

 cannot use the word espresso." True Story.

This usually leaves me feeling like this.

Or this.

But then I remember it could be worse. I could be doing this. 

Or this.

Eww. Thank God, I'm not doing that.

Plus, sometimes my fellow baristas leave little surprises. Like Bon Jovi's head

 popping out from my drive-thru camera.

And it's like he's reminding me that I'm halfway there. Whoooaa, living on a prayer. So who am I to argue with Bon Jovi and his glorious hair? And that

 makes me feel better about being a barista.

Well, kinda.

So, Wait, You Want a Tea and a Latte?

I will not be saying what coffee shop I work in, because I need money for therapy.

BUT ... if it was Starbucks, this shit would be really funny.



Marfuh. Amorfa. Whatever.

What I Really Do: Barista Edition

The What I Really Do Meme was ungodly popular about a couple months back with everyone from stay-at-home moms to Nicholas Cage getting in on all the hot meme action.

However when I searched for "barista" I was disappointed with the the sheer lack of crying displayed in the results. I guess, I'm the only professional latte-maker who drinks and cries when they get home. Whatevs.

Anyway without further ado, I present the I'm Not Really a Barista "What I Really Do" (but not really, as the blog title suggests) meme!

Sad, huh? I'm gonna go cry some more. See you guys Tuesday!

Not a Zombie. Maybe a Barista.

By now I'm sure every person with access to the internet has heard about the "Miami Cannibal" story. If you were living under a rock last week, click HERE to catch up.

Geeks everywhere were ecstatic.

"We were right!" they screamed."The zombie apocalypse is near and only those of us who have prepared will survive. Once we defeat the undead, we'll be forced to repopulate the planet. So long virginity!"

Unfortunately, for those counting down the days 'til zombie warfare, I've got bad news for you.

The Miami Cannibal wasn't a zombie.

I don't even think he was a real cannibal.

You know what he was, he was pissed-off customer service worker.

Now I can't say that for a fact, but personally I've thought about ripping someone's face off after a bad day at work.

Honestly, that's pretty tame. I won't write the worst thing I've thought about doing to some redneck with hairy eyelids after he asks if I'm retarded.

I don't need a paper trail in case some shit goes down one day.

So the moral of this horrifying story is be nice to your baristas, because they might eat your face off.

Oh, and don't come to Florida. It's getting pretty cray down here, y'all.

Dear Customers, Stop Being So Fucking Paranoid

I've been trying to avoid blogging about my job, because I'm pretty sure no one actually cares that making drinks for inbred hicks who couldn't spell macchiato if you put a gun to their head, makes me want to gauge my eyes out every single day. But some things just need to be addressed.


Dear Paranoid Customer, 


Why are you so weird about giving me your name for your cup? Seriously? I am asking for your first name, not your Social Security Number for christ's sake. Hell, you don't even have to give me your real name. You can make some shit up. I have literally written the name Glitter Dick on a cup, and it was incredible.


I understand that you feel some right to privacy. And that you are already on edge, because you are spending an exorbitant amount of money on something you feel you could do yourself, but please understand where I am coming from. All of the cups are placed in the same area and look identical for the most part, so when a cup is sat down without some identifiable feature it makes it easy for that cup to get taken by someone else. You know what that means? IT MEANS I HAVE TO REMAKE THAT FUCKING DRINK! And doing that 150 times a day makes me want to lace people's drinks with pubic hair.


Listen, I have no problem with you being paranoid. I get it. I think everyone is out to kill me. My level of paranoia is usually reserved for people who watch "The X-Files" and believe the Obama presidency is a Muslim conspiracy, but even I will give someone my name. BECAUSE IT IS JUST A FUCKING NAME! 


Now repeat after me, the next time I go into a store that provides handcrafted, caffeinated beverages and a barista, who is in no way responsible for the price of my latte, asks for my name, I will give it to him/her. Because they put up with enough shit without me sucking my teeth and rolling my eyes at a simple request.


Okay? Thanks a bunch.


Love always,


Your Barista




Wow! I feel better. Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. Now enjoy this video by my new hero. He was fired after this video went viral. On an unrelated note, I just want to reiterate that I do not work for any specific coffee company. Nope. Just one of the millions. 

We Salute You Jay

I guess Jay, an "uptight queen barrista [sic]" in NYC, did something to piss off Alec Baldwin. Baldwin then decided to get on Twitter and put his barista on blast.

Wow, Jay, what did you do to make the mild-mannered 30-Rock star mad at you?

Well, whatever it was, I only have one thing to say to you...

Did you ever know that you're my hero? You're everything I wish I could be.

Dear Customers, Stop Being So Fucking Crazy

Originally, this blog was born out of a deep-rooted hatred for working in customer service. It has since morphed into an assortment of unimportant, mildly-entertaining posts, that will ensure that I never obtain a real job. However, sometimes I feel the need to kick it old school, primarily when I encounter a douchenozzle customer who makes me want to lace their latte with pubic hair. Recently, I met a crazy woman who made me want to do just that. Enjoy.

The dance of the barista and the emotionally-unstable customer:

Bitch: I want a sugar-free caramel macchiato.

Barista: Okay, is there anything else I can get for you?

Bitch: (audibly louder) Will you give me one damn second?

Barista: Oh, okay, take all the time you need.

Bitch: I want a piece of coffee cake.

Barista: Alright, is there anything else I can get for you?

Bitch: (yells) No! Are you trying to make me fat?

Barista: (laughs)

Bitch: (silence)

Barista: Okay. We'll get that drink started for you.

A second barista begins making the drink. The customer walks the 10-feet to the handoff counter.

Bitch: It's not done yet? God!

Barista: I'm almost done. It will just be a few more seconds.

Bitch: (yells) What are you doing? I said make it cold!

Barista: Sorry, I didn't hear that. (under breath) Because you didn't say it, you psychotic bitch. But I'll remake it.

Bitch: Oh. Yes. You. Will.

At this point most of the employees are watching, baffled, at this woman's unprovoked anger. The barista hands off the drink. The woman rolls her eyes, walks out, and heads back to her home at the mental institute.

Now, I'm not saying this woman is crazy. Yes, I am. I'm just saying that I would put money on the fact that she hasn't touched another person in years, and her only socialization is with her cats, all of which are named after Golden Girls' characters. I'm sure she also mentioned this fact on her Match.com profile.

Oh, cat Blanche, you're such a slut,
just like real Blanche.

One would think when your only companionship is your sassily-named felines and the camera crew from Hoarders, you would take human interaction where you could get it.

But what would I know, I just make coffee for living.

I'm Not Really a Meth Dealer... Yet

I've learned something since becoming a post-grad a little over a week ago. People have too many goddamn opinions. An example? Why of course.

“So what are you going to do with your life now that you're out of college?”

Well, I was thinking about selling crystal meth, but I just don't think I have that trustworthy drug-dealer face.

Unfortunately, my responses are never as witty as my imagined-blog responses. The real ones usually sound like this.

Umm, well, I don't know. I think I'm going to keep making coffee for awhile, and I've been writing this blog.

It seems people don't want to hear that you have no idea what you want to do with your life. You've had four years, what in the fuck have you been doing? Any uncertainty immediately takes you out of the "responsible student" category and fast-tracks you into the "soon to be posing seductively on cars" category. 

Seriously people, I didn't just tell you that I got finger-banged by a vagrant in an alleyway again. I told you that I don't know what I want to do with the majority of my time for the next 40 or so years. Give me a break.

So I guess I might really be a barista for a little while, and a blogger and kinda into homeless people, but so is Ke$ha, and she seems to be doing alright for herself.

Life Goals are Bullshit!

You tell 'em K-Money.

Why is the kid from Deliverance in the corner of this Coffee Shop?

I love my job. And I just have to keep repeating that phrase so I do not throw scalding-hot coffee into the face of some perv who wants to know if he can stuff a dollar into my apron. This is a coffee shop, you creeper not Lucky's House of Jugs ... please leave or I will be forced to burn you.

As stated previously, I hold the coveted position of a barista, which in layman's terms means coffee bitch. I am all-powerful, holding the key to the yuppies existence. The latte.

Normally that would be all well and good, but I work in a special shop, and yes I do mean that kind of special. We wear helmets special. We eat paste special. You know, Sarah Palin special.

I say this because the the location of my store is someplace one would not expect a purveyor of the $5 latte to be placed ... that would be the sticks, in front of a Wal-Mart. Yes, it's as ridiculous as it sounds.

Most people hate our sheer existence in their town. We are everything they hate, which is fine, even understandable. But what kills me is that while hating us, they come, order their drinks, and let us know how much they hate us.

"Ohhh, this better be the best damn cup of coffee I've ever had since I just had to fork over my kids college tuitions to pay for it."

To which I want to respond, Come on, I know you weren't planning on sending your children to college.

But, really the complaints about the price is not that bad, compared to the personal assualts.

Whispers to friend:"This is why I'm making my son take AP classes so he doesn't end up pouring coffee for a living."

To which I want to respond, You bitchface whore, I'm not REALLY a barista. I'm an Journalism student who will soon be graduating with honors. I swear this is not my life, they just give me health insurance.

However, I've realizes that it doesn't matter because I will never say anything I want to say. I will never ask some people if their parents were brother and sister. I will never tell the pushy men that there's not enough daddy issues in the world to make me sleep with them. Or, if any of them know, that I could do any number of disgusting things to the product they are about to ingest. But like I said, those things don't get said. I just smile and deal.

And then, create a blog, so I can share all my stories. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll eventually lose faith in humanity, as I give you insight into my life as woman, a college student and most importantly a barista. Dammit.