So despite my lofty ambitions in life I am at present a Gay Barista in New York City. My excuse for capitalizing that is because surely somebody has written a book about us gay baristas at this point; there are enough to form an army. I won't tell if you don't ask.
Anyways, a customer today was DISGUSTED, just absolutely DISGUSTED that in the process of separating her drink cup from its brothers in the same sleeve, my fingertips touched the inside of the rim.
If any of you reading this are recoiling in horror, let me assure you I had not spat upon the cup, picked my nose, or scratched my balls in the process of reaching for her plastic beverage container, merely did what the laws of physics and biology deemed was necessary to separate the goddamn things.
I have an excuse for my distaste for her, and it's based on logic:
I hope this woman never rides the subway and holds onto the pole. Or, like, breathes the air around her. You're in New York, honey; wear a protective bubble around your head (your ass doesn't count) or move to a cabin in the Appalachians.
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