Why does everybody have to ruin everything? I’m a very simple man with very few joys and I really would appreciate it if you all would just stop walking right up to me and ruining shit for me.
Kirsten works in my office as my Starbucks guru. She does other things that she gets paid for, but her most important job and the best part of her day is when she gets to guide me up to the frothy top of Starbucks Reward Mountain like a Venti Sherpa. She drinks decaf, which is mankind’s greatest lie, but she often drinks free decaf so there is much to learn from her.
The other day, I approached Kirsten because I had offended the Michigan Avenue baristas. I am constantly mangling my orders and bringing shame upon my family. I ordered a pumpkin spice latte with an extra shot of espresso and it caused mass confusion. Asking for that one shot of espresso really threw them all off. So I needed Kirsten to translate this latest exchange to see where I erred and how much of a penance tip I owed them. And this happened:
“I have a Starbucks-related question.”
“Do you ever do work?”
“I offended the baristas again.”
“What’d you do now?”
“I ordered a pumpkin spice latte and—“
“This was for you?”
The look on her face. It was the look of respect draining from her entire body. The “you” was an auditory slap. We stood there for a long time. In those eons, a realization dawned: Kirsten didn’t think any self-respecting man should be drinking a pumpkin spice latte. But I am no self-respecting man.
“What, you don’t think a guy can have a PSL?”
“Did you just call it a PSL?” my Venti Sherpa was leaving me on the mountain. This was getting worse for me.
“I think I’m comfortable enough in my, you know, identity, that I can, once in a while, enjoy a special coffee, you know, every now and again.” I was wilting.“PSLs are only here for a limited time!”
“Just make sure that you pull your sweater sleeves all the way down to your knuckles and hold the cup in both hands and look forlornly through a rain-streaked window as you drink it.”
Boom. PSLs fucking ruined forever.
What Kirsten couldn’t have known was that my wrapping-paper thin ego (not that expensive wrapping paper that you can actually fold and crease into neat lines—I’m talking about that Walgreens see-thru shit that means you also bought the gift at Walgreens and it’s a hat) had already been irreparably shredded just a few days before when my wife of 13 years questioned whether or not I was attracted to women. She didn’t put it to me quite so bluntly. How she put it was something like:
“I don’t know, are you even attracted to women?” So it was much more bluntly.
I sobbed out my defense. I told her that I do like women. I do. In fact I used to think Jennifer Lawrence was hot but she ruined J-Law for me.
“What do you mean ‘ruined Jennifer Lawrence’?”
“You told me that she looks like Elsa all grown up.”
“So now, whenever I see that pic of her in American Hustle, in that white thing, crawling on the bed on all fours, you know the one, it’s ruined for me! I can’t enjoy it!”
“What do you mean ‘enjoy it’?”
“. . .”
“Did you call her J-Law?!”
Like blogging. There are 4 guy bloggers. In all the world. It’s a known fact that a real man simply does not blog. He can’t. You cannot blog if you have a penis. Do you have male genitalia? Of course you don’t—you’re reading a blog. But if you did, and you tried to scoot up to a keyboard, you’d see right away that MAN MEAT will stop you from getting close enough to type. At best, you’d only be able to reach the bottom row of keys. And there are no vowels in the bottom row of keys. Good luck making any sense mashing at those letters with your junk getting all smashed up and purple against the keyboard. And if you think “A-HA, I’ll just use a laptop!” Forget it. It’s called a laptop, not a penistop. Ever try putting a laptop on a man pole? Your laptop will just slide right off. Then it will be a brokentop. Good going, man! Just had to blog didn’t you?
I now eat lunch at Twin Peaks every day. Since that is where the world wants me.