You never do anything right. You read the last page of the book before you finish the first chapter. You hate consequences and loathe the unexpected. At night, just before you fall asleep, you imagine you’re falling off the edge of the sidewalk and then jar yourself awake, panicked by the approach of another day of which you will fail to take advantage.
Delicious? Maybe. But this is a choice that says you consider anything filtered to be weak. You are hidebound, brutish and oppressive. Even dogs are shy around you. Grunting has become a language of its own; combined with the narrowness of your politics, it causes women to find you strangely appealing. You, however, prefer that people think of you as an asshole.
More than Two Sugars
To make you eat your food, your parents used to bribe you with sprinkle cheese and ketchup, and then blackmail you by promising to remove your favourite toys if you didn’t finish your greens. Now you put garnish on everything you don’t like and swallow it like a good girl.
You wear trendy clothes and giggle as you lick the whipped “cream” from your plastic spoon. You really believe that you love your parents. You would like a better job, a nicer apartment and straighter, whiter teeth. This beverage is a treat, and you deserve it for being so normal.
Purist. Simple. Bug-eyed.
Diner, Free Refill
You think it’s cool to be thirty and still not have a job. The waitress knows your face, and you hope she’ll learn your name too—then she’ll feel obliged to say hello like old friends. You don’t tell anyone you have a master’s degree.