Between reluctantly being woken up by my morning alarm and racing to class at a speed that would make even Kip the Coyote proud, I barely get time to catch my breath. Yet, you always show up to class before me with a paper cup labelled “caution very hot” that seems to mock my inability to ever get my hands on it.
Sometimes the cup is covered with festive designs and on all other occasions — black or white coverings hide the contents of what you are drinking. This extent of secrecy drives me nuts. I want nothing more than to know what delicious concoction awaits your taste buds.
My days are filled with coffee — not just because of you, but also because I was hired as a spy for the AMS.
Obsessed with turning a profit, they employed me, a 5’ (something.. shh) psychology student to do whatever it takes to ensure Blue Chip, that heavenly cookie place which, by the way, also sells coffee, is the number one coffee spot on campus.
As an underdog student union which manages a measly portfolio of hundreds of thousands of dollars of student fees, the AMS has a little chip on their shoulder. That chip is blue, and they're committed to out-caffeinating their corporate coffee competitors.
But, the once thoroughly engrossing theories of Freud and stationing people to stand in the Tim Horton’s line to encourage more traffic at Blue chip, now pale in comparison to your ability to always score yourself an undeniable boost of adrenaline before our morning class. Even adding sugar to people’s French Vanillas and stealing their Iced Capps does not give me the satisfaction it once used to.
I have a need to know what you’re drinking (especially if it’s Blue Chip), and more importantly, how I can get my hands on it.
I scrounged the garbage bin after you dumped your empty cup in to see if I could get any hints about the nature of your drink. I didn't get much except for strange looks by coffee-drinking onlookers and racoons alike.
Why couldn’t you just be like the other students and buy a bright pink strawberry acai lemonade or a creamy chill — housed in a transparent container that leaves nothing to the imagination? Why must you sit there, parading your perfectly opaque coffee cup — when the magic potion inside it is precisely the thing I need to keep me alert during the endless lecture I have to endure?
The magic potion that by the way, hasn’t touched your lips once in all of my careful and continued observation of it. Is its purpose purely for decoration and for the ‘gram? Or am I right in assuming that it was your plan all along to make me feel this sharp pang of jealousy? Jealousy that can now only be swallowed down when I rush to Blue Chip after class and order my trusted iced latte?
The Dingbat is The Ubyssey's humour section. Send pitches and completed pieces to blog@ubyssey.ca.
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