Over Caffeinated

There are a few problems that come with having a sneaky cafe crush on your local barista.

The first is that you find yourself digging through your wardrobe for copious amounts of time trying to decide whether a laid back jeans and jumper would be better to ask for 1 X skinny flat white take away, or whether it would better be executed in dress and stockings. Decisions decisions.

The second is that no matter where you are when the coffee craving hits, you walk/ride/drive the extra block and half in the hope that the long, blonde haired boy will be manning the machine (that is until you get his roster memorised and know exactly what time his shifts are).

The third, and probably the worst, is that your caffeine intake is increased beyond what you can actually handle and you spend the whole day wiping your clammy hands on your pants, chatting incessantly to people and trying to disguise your trembling hands.

Possibly the most exasperating thing though, is walking into the coffee shop only to discover that Blonde Barista and his skinny, skinny jeans aren't even present and you're now in too deep to exit sans coffee, forced to order off the pink haired girl with second rate frothing skills.

Another $3.20 wasted.