Meet The Frugaltons.

It’s fine to pinch pennies. I  mean, I buy off-brand groceries whenever possible and last week, I even skipped my weekly case of beer. But when being frugal makes you an asshole, please. Just leave.

Tonight I fought a battle I’ve taken on probably two or three times before. Occasionally, there is an elderly couple who comes in and orders a twelve ounce latte split in two, and with an extra shot. And always, I take the realistic approach, charging them for two small (8 oz.) lattes with one shot a piece. Apparently, everyone else who waits on them takes the easy route and charges them for a medium latte, single-shot latte–the theoretical approach.

When I announced that their total was $4.75, I knew they were going to pitch a fit, and was surprised when the man calmly handed me a fiver. But then his dumbass wife opened her trap and began to protest the charge once I had set their drinks up on the bar and focused on finishing a shake that was in the blender.  I pretended to ignore them over the annoying whine and growl of the blender, but unfortunately they confronted me once I was finished.

Quickly, I tried to explain that they were paying for 16-ounces of milk and an extra shot of espresso, which is techinally a large latte. Using two cups adds a bit to the cost (which I think is a little stupid, the way our company has that whole thing set up….like how a double Americano is more expensive than a double espresso, but whatever) and voila, they should be charged for two small lattes, otherwise the small cups would only be semi-full, which they obviously would complain about. The man began to ask for his money back stating that they’ve been here “56 times before,” but this is when Beefcake stepped in to say he would fix it and I stomped off to pout in the back, not so upset by this incident as this fucking stupid job in general.

What drives me nuts is the unrealistic approach to fiscal matters this couple obviously takes. They live in a ritzy area, dress well, are basking in the glow of retirement, and yet they’re getting their panties in a twist over sixty cents worth of coffee. Don’t even come to a coffee shop in the year 2009 and expect two lattes for under $5. Please. I live in a shit apartment, drive a shit car, and am up to my armpits in student loan debt. If anyone needs to freak out over a couple of coins, it’s me.

Anyway, I’m off to bury my head under the covers and get ready to repeat this ridiculousness tomorrow night too. Because nothing is more fun on a Saturday night than slinging Sumatra.

Fuck.

**Demitasse.

Brain Cells.

The last two weeks were effing awful. Between my two jobs, I worked 13 days in a row, and the 11th day was a double. In addition, halfway through the run I came down with a severe cold (Froth was certain I had h1n1), AND got my period. Talk about living in Hell’s Outhouse.

Seriously.

Adding insult to injury, the weekend before last, I had a conversation that cost me a valuable amount of brain cells. And trust me–I don’t like losing my brain cells unless there are copious amounts of alcohol, fun, and vomit involved. It does NOT make me happy.

Me: “Hi, what can I get for you?”

Idiot Bitch: “Hi, what is a mocha?”

Me: “It’s a hot chocolate with espresso.”

IB: “Oh. What is a white mocha?”

Me: “A white chocolate mocha.”

IB: “Can I get a mocha hot chocolate?”

Me: DUR. “Do you want a hot chocolate or do you want a mocha?”

IB: “What’s the difference?”

Me: GAG. “A mocha has espresso. Hot chocolate doesn’t.”

IB: “I’ll have a white chocolate raspberry latte.”

Me: FML.

IB: Grabs demitasse and saucer set for sale next to register. “Ooh! Ooh look at me! It’s this cute?”

Me: “Charming. That’ll be $3.96.”

IB: “Ah, I’m giving you shit. I give everyone shit.”

Me: “Yep. Thanks.”

And I had to go in back to recover. A little later, a woman comes up and tells me she got the wrong drink, despite the fact that we had been writing people’s names on drinks all day because we were getting anally rammed all day.

Daft Twat: “Uh, I got the wrong drink. I ordered a mocha and this is a chai.”

Me: “Oh, well let me–”

DT: “And this cup says Monica. My name is Deb.”

Me: Blank starrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeee.

DT: “So I took the wrong cup.”

Me: Takes cup, dumps it, writes up a new one. “Yeah.”

DT: “Sorry. Thanks.”

Me: “Uh-huh.”

That, my friends, is like a total of FOUR minutes of my life that I will never…….NEVER get back.

Eff.

**Demitasse.

Crack.

Friday afternoon:

n00b: “Hi, what can I get for you today?”

Custie: “I’ll have one of those coffee shakes. But can I have it with 6 shots of espresso?”

n00b: “6 shots is kind of a lot of espresso. Are you sure you want that much caffeine?”

Custie: “Ha. I’m a recovering cocaine addict. That’s how I know I can handle it.”

n00b: 8-|

**Demitasse.

Dolla dolla bills ya’ll.

Almost two weeks ago, I was dead set on quitting this job.

I’d talked with Forth about it and we decided that since I would mainly be working weekends and nights and only making an extra $80 or so a week, it wasn’t worth my sanity and us only seeing each other in passing every day. We decided we could subsist on his real income and my meager “living stipend” and just hope that I found a real job before my tutoring gig is up in June.

At first I was thrilled with the prospect of shucking customer service forever, until I woke up the next morning and felt that it was an overwhelmingly bad decision. I awoke saddened by the thought of missing my co-workers, and also wondered why I would give up the chance of making more money than we’ve ever earned between the two of us. Money=clothes, booze, entertainment, fun, and I do want!

I also realized realistically I won’t be working during absurdly inconvenient times. Two nights a week plus a Saturday or Sunday was not going to kill me…so long as it wasn’t BOTH a Saturday and Sunday, which I requested. For a moment it was crazy notion, thinking of reasons I’d stay at the job I loathe, but like every other red-blooded American I’m blinded by the $$$$$. Not to mention the balance of cute kiddies versus bottle blondes with Botox and an attitude will be more manageable than before.

Fact of the matter is…….I’m sticking with this shiteous money-making endeavor longer still. I don’t like it but what can you really do besides listen to my favorite Ingrid Michaelson song?

**Demitasse.

Hilarity among stupidity.

Man, Thursday night was funny.

Something strange happened that day….it must have been something in the water, nay…..the air. Either way, during my Thursday night closing shift, I found myself operating under the giggles rather than the RAGE. Things that would generally piss me off were simply making me laugh. Hard. And frequently. I dunno if it was some sort of lunar pull but everyone who came into the cafe was. totally. batshit. crazy.

First there was a woman who occasionally stops at the cafe. She is pretty severely mental and definitely has some sort of illness like schizophrenia or whatnot. Despite this, she could have been extremely annoying, standing at the counter having a conversation with somebody in the air twenty feet behind the register as she holds a bill to pay for her coffee. However, when she sat down at a table and had an obnoxious conversation with all the imaginary folk who kept joining her table, I giggled at both her and all the yuppies who were growing increasingly annoyed at her static.

Then there was a pretty attractive dark-haired chick walking around like she was hot shit in this awesome purple dress and I thought, she looks really good, until I noticed that literally half of one cup of her also-purple bra was stick up mostly out of her dress. It’s a good thing she was probably a 32A because otherwise we would have gotten a free show. She had NO idea her bra was on display and neither did her boyfriend, which was dually hilarious.

Next was a girl and her boyfriend who I’ve seen in the cafe before. She generally gets a tea and appears to operate at a third grade intelligence level despite looking at least 20. He seems to genuinely enjoy her company, despite the greasy hair, bad skin, extra 40 pounds, and I will tell you why: they made out in front of the register, and at their table for a good hour and a half. The girl clearly puts out, and he likes what she dishes up. Not only was this a huge gag-fest (Shaneriffic was unable to get a good shot of them with his iPhone camera, otherwise you too could experience the vomit bait) but she was sporting a ratty t-shirt that bore the word DIVA followed by a definition. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: if you are inclined to wear a t-shirt that bears a noun or adjective referring to yourself, chances are you fit neither of those descriptions. Instead of punching her in the face, I lolled.

A Jewish woman also came in, who fulfilled literally every stereotype this known world has about Jews. Not only that but she was unusually fidgety, and requested five pounds each of a regular and a decaf coffee ground, which everyone knows is a gigantic pain in the ass.

“Hi,” she greeted me, “I need five pounds of your cheapest, mildest, fair trade coffee.”

“Alright. How about Breakfast Blend?”

“Is that your cheapest one?”

Enough said.

While the Jewish woman was giving Kid A the runaround at the register, I noticed a woman tapping her foot and being impatient right behind her. I walked past our bakery case and the woman leaned over to ask,

“If I just want a brownie do I have to wait in line?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling to myself, “Everyone waits in line.”

As I resumed my place beside Shaneriffic to see if there was anything I could get or prep or make, Brownie Lady sidles on down to the second register, where we had already taken down the drawer.

“Can I order here? Can I tell you what I want?”

“I can get it ready but you still have to be rung up at the first register. This one doesn’t have money in it.”

“But can you just take me here? Can you give me two brownies?”

“Yes, I can get the brownies but you still have to wait to pay. This register is shut down.”

As Jewish lady finishes up, I grab the brownies and Brownie Lady then thrusts her debit card at Shaneriffic before the Jew has even zipped up her gigantic purse. I’m not sure where the fire was, but Brownie lady sure as hell didn’t need those calories that fast.

Unfortunately my own personal LoLfest only lasted that one shift, and the next night it was back to raging. However, the next night I discovered that the cure for most rage is to sip some Canadian Mist and yell insults at passersby off of Shaneriffic’s porch. Alcohol, kids, is always the answer.

**Demitasse.

Labour Dizzle.

Today’s Labor Day shift was a lot like actually being in labor: I spent multiple hours in excruciating pain and the end result was tiny, ungrateful, and not nearly worth the effort.

I keed, I keed.

Sort of….

As with the 4th of July, my co-workers and I were absolutely baffled as to why people were spending their day off shopping and being public dickbags rather than grilling out and eating brats and drinking Miller and spending time with boring loved ones like they are supposed to fucking do on a holiday.

The day started off lazy and slow and a lot like Easter (when I only was required to stick around for 3 hours of my 8 hour shift) and then got super retarded super fast. I was in the kitchen so luckily I could keep my rage to myself without inflicting too much pain on others, but when I needed a helper making food at 2:15 p.m. well…..that was just dumb.

Knowing that there was a fresh bottle of gin waiting at home for me, I was able to deal with the fuckery by thinking of things I wish I could walk around candidly saying to people without them slapping me in the face–the things that are on everyone’s mind, but we’re all too polite to say:

“An large coffee shake? Phew…you sure about that? Better make it a small. Your ass looks like it could use a breather.”

“Your thong is showing you little skank…and it looks like you should do laundry a little more often too.”

“Wow. Lay off the eyeshadow.”

“You thought ordering oatmeal was going to be fast (as you inadvertently muttered when I passed you on my way back from delivering the three orders that were placed before yours)? Well if you want fast food, go scarf a McMuffin, you self-indulged c**tbag. You’re not the only one who went out for breakfast this morning.”

“Hi, did you know your purple sweater has ridden up 3 inches above your jeans? If I wanted to see a flesh belt, I’d be watching Silence of the Lambs right now. Sick.”

“Whipped cream? Yeah you should skip that.”

“Your hair looks like a helmet. There’s this thing called an ozone. Remember? Looks like you’re responsible for destroying it, Mrs. Aqua Net 1966.”

“Have you thought about switching to skim?”

In completely juxtaposition with the one-way ticket to Hell I seemingly just booked, I begin training for my second job teaching little kids how to read for meager pay tomorrow, so luckily it’s a couple days away from the café. This will surely be a welcome change after a full weekend of,

“No I will not bring you a glass of water: do I look like a goddamned waitress? Did you tip me like a waitress? I think effing not. All drinks get picked up inside. Sod off.”

**Demitasse.

P.S.–Yes I hate my job but it’s shit like this thanks to my superb co-workers that get me by:

You’re an idiot. No…for real.

Dude comes up to the counter–he looks a lot like Bill Gates, so naturally, I’m expecting intelligence and a large tip.

Bill: “I’d like a latté please.”

Me: “Sure, what size?”

Bill: “How many shots are in the small?”

Me: “Just one.”

Bill: “Okay well I’d like to add another and 2% milk, please.”

Me: “Sure.”

Bill: “Two shots and 2% milk and what do you use in lattés?”

Me: “Uh, what do you–”

Bill: “What flavor? Honey? How much honey do you use? How many pumps.”

Me: “For flavored lattés we use about an ounce of syrup…maybe half.”

Bill: “Flavor? What flavors do you have? I mean it…it says honey latté on the menu.”

Me: “Right that’s one of the flavors. We have all these [points to syrup list].”

Bill: [Points to the menu] “But up there it says honey. How much honey do you use?”

Me: “An ounce.”

Bill: “Right so a latté. Two pumps of espresso and a pump of honey. How much?”

Me: “$3.96.”

Bill: “I’ll need a receipt.”

Me:  X-/

**Demitasse.

Tip Whores.

A word of advice: get your dirty dumb grubby fingers out of my tip jar.

Seriously.

The amount of people that have been dipping into our tip jars for spare change has been RIDICULOUS. Not only is that rude, but it’s tacky. Does that look like a penny dish? No, asshole. That silver milk pitcher decorated with bright letters that spell T-I-P-S is not so you can save yourself from recieving 98 cents back in change because you’re a cheapo who only carries dollar bills.

Last week a woman was digging around for some coin and when she caught me glaring at her she said,

“Sorry. I’m taking a penny out, but I did put a nickel in.”

As if four cents was going to make such a different in the lives of me and my co-workers. Yes. How generous and thoughtful of her. If you can afford a $4.17 latte, you can sure as hell spare a couple quarters, at least.

Please.

Another thing I’ve been particularly astounded by lately is people’s penchant for being completely unaware of what they’re ordering, or forgetting about it mere moments after placing their order. For example, I was working in the kitchen and brought out a breakfast egg sandwich and a breakfast burrito to a mom and her daughter.

“Okay,” I said, standing in front of the table. “Who had the breakfast burrito?”

They both stared blankly at me, and then the daughter began glancing expectantly at her mother.

“I didn’t have a breakfast burrito.”

“Okay….” I said.

“I had the tofu hash burrito.”

“Yeah. That IS a breakfast burrito,” I explained, placing the baskets down a little more harshly than necessary.

“Oh. Excellent.”

And I ran away.

The other evening I was at working a bar shift and was blown away by how many people who didn’t realize what drink they’d purchased.

“I’ve got a a small honey latte ready at the counter,” I called, placing the mediocrely-poured drink on the counter and looked around at the three or four people waiting for a drink. A middle-aged blonde woman came forward and studied it for a moment before deciding it wasn’t hers. After calling out a chai, iced mocha, and a regular latte, the same woman came forward and pointed to the small cup.

“Is this the honey latte?” she asked, studying the drink the same as before.

“Yep. That’s a honey latte.”

“Oh,” she said, reaching for a lid. “Thank you.”

“Yep,” I said, reaching for the imaginary brick I occasionally use to beat my skull against.

The same night R.Danger produced a vanilla Italian soda and called it out at the bar counter with a professional stir into the flavored bubbles.

A plain-looking teenage girl he was fairly certain had ordered the soda looked at it with disinterest and continued to wait at the counter while R.Danger went to prep a couple more drinks. A few moments later he returned to the counter and again called out the vanilla Italian soda. This time, the teen looked at him and raised her hand. At this point, a few things went through R.Danger’s head. Things like, “WTF. What? Yeah. Um. Hey. Yes, you there? In the first row?”

“Uh, your drink is ready,” R.Danger granted, giving the girl the apparent permission she needed to go enjoy her soda.

And speaking of teenagers, just before I was about to go home yesterday, a older foreign-ish man caught my attention as I was wiping tables.

“Yes?” I turned at stopped at his table per his request.

He pointed a withering finger to a group of teens that were sitting haphazardly at a cluster of misplaced chairs and tables outside. A girl was leaning with her back against the giant glass paned window, her blue sweatshirt smushed up, showing that all her weight was against the window.

“You’d better tell them to stop that nonsense before she breaks that window.”

At this point it was 5:05 on a Sunday evening, I’d been more pissed off about doing a Friday night AND a Saturday night close in addition to the Sunday all-day shift than dealing with custies. The Man had ruined my weekend completely with her dumb scheduling and prevented me from spending any time with Froth, who was obviously enjoying his normal free weekend. It was five minutes past the end of my five day workweek and I simply didn’t care any longer.

“If she breaks it, she can buy it. I don’t get paid enough to babysit a bunch of teenagers. They can do what they want.”

I took my wet bar rag and spun around, ignoring whatever the old man was muttering behind me, and promptly clocked out.

Despite all this, the incident that stands out best the last couple weeks was yesterday when a refreshingly harried-looking working mother ordered a cup of black coffee while pushing a toddler in a plain-jane small, worn stroller (not the giant SUV-sized designer monstrosities so frequently favored by suburban Bitchinators) and worked her way to the stir station while trying to hang onto her older daughter’s hand, push the stroller, and hold her coffee at the same time.

Her coffee hand slipped and hit the handle of the stroller, tipping her cup slightly and consequently spilling ridiculously hot brew atop the wispy blond head of her little boy in the stroller. The mother did the best she could to wipe the hot coffee off her son’s head quickly while not spilling the rest of it on her daughter, but as the heat of the burn began to develop on the kid’s malleable scalp, his voice raised into a squealing bawl, and rightfully so. I felt simply awful for the little boy AND his mom, but couldn’t help wishing it would have happened to one of the Fendi-toting trophy moms who simply don’t imagine they could do something that awful to their children. *Sigh. I sort of froze for a second and didn’t know if I should grab a clump of cold, wet paper towels for the kid’s head or something but by the time I thought of it the mom had the situation under control and was tightly rocking the toddler and apologizing to him at a nearby table.

In an odd way it was nice to feel compassion and sympathy instead of cold rage and apathetic belligerence in my godforsaken workplace. But still….the poor kid.

**Demitasse.

Asphinctersayswhat?

Sometimes, people can be more than just assholes. Sometimes, on days like last Monday, people can be downright sphincters. Slimy, puckering, stinky sphincters.

Much like the kid who thought it would be a good idea to come up to the cash register while talking on his cell phone. He mouthed something to me inaudibly, as to keep the unfortunate soul on the end of the line in the dark as to what else he was up to. I wasn’t having this, so I leaned forward and shrieked,

“WHAT?”

Mr. Cell Phone’s face twisted up into annoyance and he sneered back at me in his best Suburban Brat voice,

“Can I HAVE a job application?”

“We’re not hiring,” I waved him along.

It goes without saying that even if we were, you wouldn’t walk into a place like that, on your phone, unaware if you were talking to a manager or whatnot, and ask about potentially being employed. Kid obviously has never had a job before and certainly isn’t serious about getting one.

The next oozing blister on the heel of my existence came in the form of a pretty brunette go-fer who had been sent to get drinks by the people in her office. She produced a stack of bills separated by post-its marked with each person’s order and I knew this was not going to be good.

She then proceeded to place six separate orders, then combining the change she received back from each one, completely defeating the purpose of the separate ordering. Of course then she also requested individual receipts for each transaction so each person could know how much change they needed back. The logical alternative is of course doing a combined order with an itemized receipt, but apparently these asshats weren’t aware of the easier option, and my soul crumbled a bit.

A constant annoyance that was emphasized last week in particular was people’s insistence about being overly picky about the bakery items they bought. For example,

“Can I have a blueberry muffin. No, not that one. The one in the second row. Third from the front. Yeah. Yeah….that one.”

Or,

“I’ll take that cinnamon. But can I have the one on the bottom? With the sign in it?”

Sure. Sure, I’ll pick through the mass of pastries that seriously ALL taste alike and pick out the one you seem to find biggest and most perfectly baked. Just like the rest of them. Because that is my fucking job.

Ugh.

Lastly, I was waiting on two latinos who work in the kitchen of a nearby restaurant and while I like them well enough because they’re cool guys and they usually only get coffee, I overheard one of them say the word “cholo” as they approached the register. I know from watching “Weeds” that it couldn’t be good, but nothing was weird and they left pleasantly.

I actually started this post like last week and neglected it, so I guess I’ll save the bitter morsels of tonight’s work cuisine for tomorrow’s entry.

**Demitasse.

The long and the hard.

“I want just a good, plain old cup of American coffee.”

The old dude in a short-sleeve plaid button-up put on a wide smile and placed his order with our manager. He didn’t stop there, of course.

“Just give me a regular, no fancy schmancy stuff, cup of American coffee. I’m gonna need a little room for cream and sugar though.”

“Hmm, cream and sugar,” I muttered to Pachy. “Guess he’s not THAT American then.”

“Good old regular coffee: American style,” this man continued to beat a dead horse.

“He probably voted Republican too,” I told Pachy as I went off to put away some clean dishes.

By this point The Man had stopped playing along with the guy’s coyness and started nodding and attempting to get the hardcore Patriot away from the register as soon as possible, American coffee and all. Ironic of course, since none of our coffee is American in origin–unless you count SOUTH America, of course. Anyways, this is only where it began, on Friday morning.

As the clock rotated further towards the lunch hour, we were experiencing a late breakfast surge. A very tall man with a Brazilian accent and the need to wear sunglasses indoors came up to my register, leaned in far too close to my face, and requested a plate of scrambled eggs with hash browns and bacon.

“Um, we don’t have that sort of food. This isn’t that kind of restaurant,” I told him, before explaining our choice of pre-made breakfast items. Reluctantly he decided on a bagel sandwich before attempting to wait for his food by leaning on the bakery cooler. After he received and consumed his meal, he and his skinny, exotic, greasy-haired girlfriend proceeded to stand up, leaving their dishes and baskets strewn about the table, and make-out in the path of traffic for an uncomfortable few seconds before heading out the door.

This is one of the many things I cannot imagine doing in a public eating facility, and not just because my bile-production kicks into overdrive simply thinking of the wedding photos Froth and I were looking through that included “kiss shots” the other day. The other of course, is coming up to order at any cafe or restaurant and standing in front of the cash register with my mouth open, making an “UGHGHHHNNN,” sound as I review the menu. Because that’s what an ASTOUNDING amount of people did this weekend.

Nobody cares how many people are waiting behind them. If it’s their turn and they’re undecided, they still come up and stare up at the list of drinks while emitting a dialogue like such,

“I uhnnn, umm. Hmm….let’s see. What about the….? Hmm. Nah. Ummmm. Do you….? Eh, no. How about……uhnnn. Sheesh. I dunno. I guess I’ll have__________.”

FUCKING FINALLY.

Not only is it terribly rude for all the people behind you, but you’re wasting my damn time. I don’t even WANT to get paid to look into your dumb open mouth while you try to process the difference between a mocha and a vanilla latté. You’re selecting a fucking coffee drink–not choosing a goddamn health plan. And while we’re at it: make sure you know what effing lid size fits your coffee cup. Somehow people are always certain we don’t offer the correct lid size, and when it’s pointed out to them, they backpedal harder than a shitty unicycle on a tightrope.

Then again, showing people they were wrong about something is my best source of satisfaction at this stupid job, so perhaps I should relish it a bit more. Hmm.

The winner of this week’s Gold Star of Dumbassery goes to a woman who visited our fair coffee shop on Thursday morning, regrettably in my absence. Before her in line was a regular who works in the mall area. He usually provides his own coffee thermos, and Thursday was no different. He ordered something like a large coffee with a double shot, and went to use the restroom while the shots were being pulled. Meanwhile, a woman behind him orders a small vanilla latté, and waits for her beverage with the rest of the morons at the counter. As the barista calls up our regular’s drink in his thermos, the woman comes forward and grabs his drink. They don’t notice right away, but thankfully the man emerged just then from the bathroom, and said he heard his beverage called. Ass Man, who was telling me this story, says yep, they called his drink, and then spots the newly-minted Thermos Thief about to take his drink outside.

The thing is, she really wasn’t looking to steal his mug. She honest-to-God thought this was her drink. Her VANILLA LATTE in a reusable METAL thermos. Embarrassed, she brings it back and switches it out for her smaller, lighter-colored, sweeter, TOTALLY DIFFERENT coffee drink and the regular offers a very sympathetic OMFUG WTF “Have a, um, great day, guys,” look and heads off to deal with his own deluded yuppies.

Uh. Yeah. Did you just die inside too?

The Barf Award goes to the group of three menopausal broads and one daughter who were eating breakfast outside this morning. As I delivered their food, the mom says to her daughter,

“Ha, it looks like you’re having an orgasm.”

There are so many things wrong with that phrase, so many things, that I flashbacked to when I was on vacation with my parents and grandparents in Alaska and my grandma was insisting to me in the small 30-foot RV we all shared for a week that it was okay for her to frequently repeat the word “condom” at her age.

But this one was worse, I feel. This is a mother. How and WHY for God’s sake does she want to even consider her daughter’s O-face? Instead, I resisted the urge to go hide in a dark corner for awhile and only smiled when the woman realized I had heard and politely excused herself.

Anyways. Tomorrow is the middle of my 7-day streak and I’ve already got more of this shit stew cooking in the cesspool of my brain, so I’ll catch you bastards again real soon.

**Demitasse.