One toasty March day, I was walking down Main Mall, the scorching hot sun high in the sky and the passionately fornicating birds chirping merrily despite their seasonal cues being thrown out of whack.
Over the cacophony of the bird equivalents of oh yeahs and this happens a lot — I’m on antidepressants, there was one thing on my mind: the soothing embrace of an iced oat milk vanilla matcha latte from Blue Chip Cookie Store, a cool respite for my weary soul.
I approached the counter and placed my order. I clearly specified iced — my loyal Finsta story likers have to see the beautiful bright milky green of my beverage unobstructed by a paper cup. I hoped that one of them would finally swipe up and talk to me, but I know they are too intimidated by my perfectly-curated balance of steakhouse meals, golfing thirst traps and climate crisis infographics.
The lethargic barista called out my number and handed me my dri — OWW FUCK FUCK OWW IT BURNS! What horror! What agony! I was given a hot matcha latte instead of an iced one!
Being given something hot when I wanted something cold… That’s almost like… No, that’s too obvious.
I attempt to rationalize the situation. Perhaps it was an honest mistake, a simple fumble in the mid-afternoon or a lapse of the barista’s judgment. I take a sip, but as the liquid fire enters my throat, it awakens a realization.
I gaze into the depths of my cup. First I notice the small chunks of undissolved matcha powder floating in the foamy primordial ooze of grassy goodness — why does nobody on this campus know how to make a good matcha latte — but then I realize that this is not merely a “silly little drink.”
It is a microcosm.
A scalding omen of the ramifications of humanity’s recklessness toward the delicate ecosystems of the world, like a milk foamer brutally agitating milk into palatable little bubbles.
That barista wasn’t just an exhausted linguistics major. They were a prophet — a Kwisatz Haderach of coffee.
And, by identifying a metaphor in the wild, I am using my English literature degree harder than I ever have before.
With my newfound rage (and, more importantly, my brain reeling from the satiating dopamine spike from having something new and attention-grabbing to post on my Finsta story), I unloaded.
“Behold!” I typed, “humanity getting what it deserves! In this cup lies the truth of the inferno of our Earth!”
“shut up lmao,” wrote a commenter.
“you know you can just ask them to remake it,” wrote another.
“I can’t see what’s in the cup,” wrote some boomer, probably.
I anticipated this from the beginning! The paper cup is obscuring the truth like… like… you get the idea.
That’s why I started my nonprofit: Matcha, I Hardly Know Her.
We collaborate with cafes all across the Lower Mainland to serve humanities majors hot beverages when they order iced ones in order to radicalize them and make them start their own well-intentioned but ultimately meaningless projects.
Visit AhItBurnsMakeItStopPlease
MakeItStopIJustWantedAnIced
LattePleeeeeease.com for locations and more.