While standing in line at a Starbucks, the mind starts to wander…and wander…

One medium coffee and one tall, soy, cinnamon dolce latte. I hope I have enough money. I should have enough. One medium coffee and one tall, soy, cinnamon dolce latte. I’m not going to say Tall or Grande. I don’t do Starbucks speak. When I was in Puerto Rico, I said “grande coffee” and that made sense. Here, I feel like a cult member. I might as well place my order, say “s’l vous plait” and make a fart noise with my mouth.

One medium coffee and one small, soy, cinnamon dolce latte. I wonder if I should tell them there’s a huge dead fly on that piece of lemon cake. I bet they’d say, “No, sir, that’s a dead Grande fly.”

I hope this woman gets off her cell phone before she has to order. It’s annoying enough standing in line with her talking to someone who I’ll assume is an idiot for my own amusement. I’m making myself a promise – if she is still on her cell phone when she orders I’m going pull out my cell phone and say, “Hey, Frank. I’m at Starbucks. Yeah, there’s this real huge bitch in front of me who won’t get off her cell phone. Is pushing someone considered assault?”

One medium coffee and one small, soy, cinnamon dolce latte. I think there should only be two acceptable responses when someone asks, “I’m going out to get coffee, does anyone want anything?” Those two responses are, “No,” and “I’ll come with you.” I don’t even know if Ms. Soy Cinnamon Dolce Latte is going to pay me back or if she thinks this one is on the house. I’m not handing it to her until I see at least $4 from her.

If coffee is supposed to put hair on your chest…what takes it off? Whatever it is, I should be drinking that stuff. I remember my first cup of coffee. I was into sports, but one time, I found myself at a Denny’s with a bunch of kids in theater. The theater crowd likes coffee. I didn’t know how many sugars to ask for so I just said “the usual,” hoping the waiter might confuse me with someone else’s “usual” order.

One medium coffee and one small, soy, cinnamon dolce latte. Why aren’t there energy drink bars? Red Bull can’t open up a little shop? I don’t know how coffee did it, but it somehow became the perfect drink for picking yourself up AND for calming down. There’s a guy right over there drinking a cup of coffee and quietly reading the newspaper. If I opened a Red Bull bar, there would be padded walls and everything in the bar could be thrown all over the place.

I wonder if the person behind me is starring at my ass. I’m starring at the person’s ass in front of me. I should check.

Great! Now the guy behind me thinks I’m checking him out. He definitely wasn’t starring at my ass. Should I be insulted? Even better, I’m ordering a completely feminine drink. He’s going to think I’m gay for sure. Maybe I’ll order my coffee and then say “this big breasted hottie I’m sleeping with would like a…” Would that fly? Is that sexual harassment? Oh well, I’d rather be thought of as gay than the poor sucker who orders the lemon cake.

I’m going to ask the barista if there’s one drink they hate to make. What if it’s mine? Should I feel guilty? Should I make my co-worker feel guilty? I’m going to tell my co-worker it’s her drink no matter what the barista says.

One medium coffee and one small, soy, cinnamon dolce latte. I really should update my blog. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. I bet people are annoyed. I’m not sure who I think these people are, but I have to think people care about my blog or else it’s…well, a blog. There has to be a few people who go home each night and say, “Honey, I had another shitty day. ThePatrickRules.com remains un-updated. It’s getting really hard to get out of bed in the morning.” Maybe?

I should just write down my thoughts. My thoughts? Those aren’t interesting. I should make up a story. Maybe the Starbucks gets held up and someone tells me there’s a gun behind the Venti cups – but since I refuse to acknowledge the Starbucks speak, the robber gets away. Naaahhh, those stories are boring.

That’s the problem:
Real life is boring and made up stories are obviously made up because they’re NOT boring.

I think I’m going to get the wrong order for my co-worker just so she never lets me get coffee for her again.

I wish the guitar solo for We Will Rock You was better. It starts off great, but after that it’s kinda blah. I need new sneakers.

Oh good, the woman in front of me got off her cell phone. Now I feel kind of guilty for starring at her ass this whole time. Maybe the guy in back of me noticed I was starring and knows I’m not gay. I hope he starred at my ass for just a second though.