I love Starbucks.

I love the look of the buildings, the decor inside, the snazzy music that they play… I love the scent of the coffee, I love the friendliness of the employees… And oh, oh, oh, how I love the taste of their coffee. Don’t even get me started on their whipped cream. I’ve been known to damage small children that come between me and my Starbucks whipped cream. I’m crazy about that stuff; heck, I think I’m pretty much feral when it comes to whipped cream. I feel like I turn into some sort of snarling, wild creature at the zoo. This is the Beckyus Greedicus. See her in her natural habit, stalking the defenseless coffee cup. Note the single-minded determination, and the controlled grace as she approaches the coffee counter. This is a true coffee predator. Do not attempt to make the Becky to share in her “kill”. Approaching the Becky whilst she is enjoying her whipped cream is considered extremely dangerous. In the event that you inadvertently approach the Becky during any point of her Starbucks consumption, make slow, non-threatening movements and remove yourself from the area as soon as possible. Ah, Starbucks. How I love thee.

But do you know what? I hate Starbucks. I do. I hate them! I hate the quasi-Italian labeling on their drinks. I feel STUPID every time I start rattling off my combination of favorite tastes. “I’ll have a grande three-pump extra-hot vanilla latte, in a venti cup so that I can get extra whipped cream.” Did you know that the aforementioned drink has almost 700 calories in it, when you factor in the narcotically-delicious whipped cream? Don’t get me wrong; I’m not a calorie-counter, but 700 calories for a drink is a little unbelievable.

I hate the fact that I know the difference between a “three-pump” and a regular vanilla latte. I feel like I’ve sold my soul somehow, to whatever Consumer god it is that oversees all of Southern California. I hate standing in line sandwiched in between those unbelievably-skinny, Nordstrom’s-outfitted, Botox-infested real estate agents. I hate listening to them order their tall, non-fat, no-caffeine, dairy-free Mocah-GreenTea-Frappi-Latte-Whatever. It embarrasses me to be in the same line. It embarrasses me when I have to pull out a five dollar bill in order to pay for my coffee, and that after tipping, I’m only left with a dollar.

Did you know that when I worked at the police department, I drank a Starbucks every shift? Occasionally, one really sleepy days, I even drank two. Now, if we round up to four dollars for every coffee (because sometimes I tip extra), that’s 112 dollars every month (not including the days I had two). I worked at the department for over eight months before I decided to return to school. So, that brings my Starbucks-money-wasting to $896 for eight months…. and I’m SURE that I had some Starbucks on my days off. If you factor in everything (the extra coffees, the few extra weeks over eight months that I worked, and the coffees on my days off) it brings it up to about $1000.

One. Thousand. Dollars. ON COFFEE. And the only thing I have to show for it is some acne on my chin, and some extra cellulite on my thighs. Oh, and I also have an addiction now. Great. I’m an addict.

Starbucks, you (insert foul language). You stole my money, you stole my self-esteem, and you stole my sanity. Even now, as I’m writing this, I’m wondering when I’ll have my next coffee. I can’t get you off my mind. It’s like I’ve joined some sort of cult, and I can’t escape. That’s not coffee you’re selling; it’s concentrated evil. It’s the heroin of the new millennium, isn’t it? Just try one sample… isn’t it good? Would you like another one? Well, you’re hooked now, aren’t you? Stupid Starbucks.