I'm not entirely sure of what requirements are in place by which Starbucks measures the worthiness of the masses of aspiring baristas to man the stands at the mall and on street corners around the globe.

But I'm quickly finding that my order is invariably given to varying forms of a perky college student with a greasy coiffure and godly clear skin. I don't know if this is some kind of a prerequisite for employment, or if it's just what becomes of any ordinary person subjected to a caffe mocha or two every half hour. Either way, I personally find their almost obnoxious happiness unbearable, even if I only experience it for a total of thirty seconds at a time. The knowledge that I'm subjecting my body to this common poison makes me wonder if I might someday wake up to find myself hopeful for the future of mankind, effusing this effervescent demeanor in a constant stream of caffeine-driven optimism. If this curse should ever come upon me, it will be a billion arguments too soon.

One might be tempted to think it unfair to be so privileged as to bask in the coffee-induced delirium of the Starbucks barista. However, thoughts of racing, pumping hearts and erectile dysfunction quickly beckon us back to reality. Still, the syrupy goodness of a white chocolate mocha, and perhaps also the image of everlasting youth taking your order, eventually bring us back for more. (Coffee, that is.)