Life can be annotated in more than a quatillion words. More so of my experience in purchasing a can of coffee.
I am not a coffee drinker. As much as I aspire to be one, I cannot tolerate the taste and the after effect is like a 6.7 earthquake in my little head. Yet my fascination opposes my bodys’ physical reaction towards this cup of strange. I hover over the menu when I see words like cappuccino, macchiato, americano and the likes. Contemplating, toying with the idea of ordering a steaming cup with pretty little foamy things with a slap of biscotti on the side. But no, I order a milkshake instead and my soul shrivels to the corners of my dark insides.
I’ve always felt inferior too coffee drinkers. I would sit there, one hand hugging my glass of sad, the other tracing little stars and abbreviations on condensation, sipping from the pink bendy straw and picking out rainbow sprinkles. I sit up and flip my hair to what I think will level my sophistication to that of the coffee drinkers around me.
So you can imagine the bursts of impetuousness when I popped the tab of vanilla latte (okay, so its not hardcore or anything but still) open.
Now, with this can in my hand and the heels that I wear and this poise that I hold. I am above you.