This is the worst job. 

This is the most ridiculous job ever to be created. 

This job will lead me to my death. 

I hate this job. 

Over a year working at a coffee shop, dealing with stupid pretentious customers and morning workers whom I envy, I am still here slaving away at ridiculous orders and hippies who think they are cool for being vegan. My regrets overlook the good pay, but college isn't free so the hustle is real. 

I hate working here. 

"One grande hazelnut latte with heavy cream, light foam, two spoons sugar, and 4 shots of espresso." 

My sigh carries out of my mouth before I can stop it. But the woman in front of the counter is too busy on her Iphone to even notice me. Her long fake nails taping against the screen is fast paced, but her facial expression rests bored. She's the stereotype I see everyday. Someone who is too busy with the outside circle, the one where looks matter and what you do is expressed on social media, everything in her day is documented. I wouldn't be surprised if she took a photo of her coffee before she even has a taste. What a sad world to live in. Too many live this way. 

"Want some toppings?" 

She barely acknowledges my question. Her eyes continue darting around her screen, probably reading posts or scrolling Instagram. As I'm about to ask once again, her attention breezes towards me, in one quick motion before turning back to the sleek phone, she hums out a "Just Whipped Cream." 

Typical. 

I get her coffee prepped and finished. I note that at least she's being patient and not scolding me that I'm not a superhuman or robot that can make a coffee in two seconds. She takes the cup from my hand and passes me some bills with the other in one swift motion. That's the point where she decided that she has places to be. I notice she doesn't look at anyone else before she heads out the door, wherever she's going I really hope she doesn't come back. 

They usually do though. 

The daily rushes stop as it gets to the time where coffee orders are slow and my break is around the corner before the hipsters come in with their laptops and Beats headphones to do whatever they do in their little corners or window seats. 

I'm watching the clock but hear a "Um" behind me. 

"I need a Cappuccino." 

"And I need a better job but that requires more details, much like your order." This makes the blonde stranger laugh. Something that was more embarrassed than thinking what I said was any funny to him. 

"Sorry, I usually never get coffee. A traditional Cappuccino should work." 

It's my time to laugh, but more for that he's so embarrassed. I've probably heard everything there is to hear. Wrongly said orders, orders that don't exist, and the people who read off the menu followed by a "Wait a second." I relate to him. 

"If it doesn't work, you're still paying me." I half-joke. I am ready for my break, that was supposed to start a few minutes ago. 

I think about his life as I get the coffee done. About where he lives, his commutes, his work, his school or if he doesn't go, what he does in his free time. Just things that come to mind. The thought that if he has a way better job than me, hoping he is the burger flipper at McDonalds to help me sleep tonight. 

"Well, here you go." 

He stands awkwardly for a few seconds and silently laughs to himself. For a thought, I was thinking he was disappointed and didn't think his order through. 

"Can I have your number?" 

This time I laugh. This wasn't the first time someone has asked me for my number or they written theirs down, only for me to throw it away when I am home. This is however the first time a male has asked me. I give myself an internal debate, only to come to saying 'why not.'

"Sure but you'll have to improve your coffee ordering."

I only half take back what I said. 

I do hate this job, but sometimes it surprises me. 

Sometimes I find something worthwhile. 

I still dream of being drowned by pumpkin lattes however.