Labor Day Weekend Barista Apocalypse Fantasy For Your Reading Pleasure

IMG_4251I quit my job two weeks ago today. I gave an 8-week notice because I was the manager and I felt guilty. I left 3 days before my 8 weeks was up.

I just walked out.

Well, I gave them “my two cents” aka “a piece of my mushy, underdeveloped mind” which sounded something like a garbled “Na-na-na-boo-boo-stick-your-head-in-doo-doo-i-hate-myself-leave-me-alone-im-sorry-goodbye” before I walked out (i.e. hobbled out with a broken spirit and a strong desire for a bagel sandwich and a pack of Newports).

I left partially on an ethical stand point (like 1% really, my morals are not that strong) but mostly because I just didn’t want to be there anymore and I had 2 more seasons of Game of Thrones to catch up on.

That’s how I ended 3 ½ years at a place I have no idea how I got myself into to begin with. Existentially I mean, of course. I know how the fuck I got there: No college education and a lifetime of crippling, chronic depression and a bad attitude. Duh.


It’s not that interesting, retail work. I’ve worked most of the last 20 years doing some form of retail. It’s boring and pointless and you know you are a useless cog in the wheel of humanity the longer you stand behind a counter and pretend to care. When the bombs start dropping and buildings start falling and people are bloody in the streets, any skills I may have accumulated serving the general public are pretty much useless. I’m dead meat.

Unless there is a working espresso machine and I’m the only barista left. Maybe then I’ll have some value. And I’ll be old- maybe I’ll be an old man even though I am not currently a man, I’ll just switch genders real quick mid-apocalypse- and I’ll have a wife and kids and I’ll change my last name to Rosetta and we will be the last generation of artisanal coffee makers. And I’ll stroke my long gray beard (salt & pepper, really: a little sexy, a little repulsive) and my tannin stained yellow teeth will peak out under my lips when I casually chat about “Back in my day barista was just another word for ding-dong-who-needs-to-get-a-real-job!  Now look at me, holding a crumbling post apocalyptic society together! LOL” (and I’ll actually say LOL because during the future apocalypse our language has blended with text speak which will turn out to be a very useful way of communicating short hand style verbally when shit is going down. Actual laughter could get you killed out there. THANKS, MILLENIALS.).

Pam (my wife) and I will never stop copulating.  Jerry and Pam Rosetta and their 4 kids raised on micro foamed breast milk. Pam is motherly yet sensual with soft, pillowy breasts but she can climb a tree real good.  Jerry (me) is a leader in the community and envied by the other working class men, but respected and thought of as a brother and suspected to be a homosexual though by look on Pam’s face tells that he is able to get the job done at home so whatever he does in private is his business, just don’t put your dick in my latte thank you very much.  He has one enemy (Frank) planning his demise but Frank knows if he kills Jerry, the community will never have beautiful lattes to fuel them again because no one knows how to use the espresso machine. Mostly this was a power play on Jerry’s part for not teaching anyone else how to make espresso beverages but he has to feel important and needed in order to go on after the invasion of his already gentrified hometown which he thinks is kind of exciting but would never tell anyone because he’s not a monster.         Or is he?



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