Skinny. Grande.

I purchased a grande skinny vanilla latte from Starbucks. Usually, the cashier will write DREW SKINNY in quick sharpie scrawl on the coffee sleeve, which always feels nice. Sort of like Café Gratitude’s menu-items-as-affirmations but instead of positive raw vegan fare I’m being served delicious chemical stimulants. “Yes,” I think, “I one day could be skinny. Or maybe a realistic meeting in the middle. A true skinny grande.” Is that like describing oneself as “curvy” on a dating website?

My lattes are rubenesque.

Yesterday, instead of my usual aspirational affirmation of hope and complicated body image, the barista, in penmanship typically reserved for your sociopath of a 10th grade lab partner wrote something that looked a bit like DREW SLAVE instead of DREW SKINNY.

Time to take the hint?

Tomorrow I will switch back to Americanos with a little room for cream. At least then they write DREW AM ROOM. Yes. I am. I am Drew. There is room for me in the Universe and within my cup. 16 ounces of American freedom.