A Tale of Authenticity

When I see the brownies being opened from their surplus packaging, something in me wants to cancel my order almost immediately.

I feel so slighted.

My fresh morning routine has been prepackaged this entire time?

What other secrets have you been hiding in shrink-wrap?

It takes a lot to get my momentum going in the morning and it isn’t going anywhere if you’re using a box cutter to open the one thing in this world that I love.

Perhaps its naïve, but I always envisioned my morning brownie being prepared with love as it awaits my cheery arrival each morning and I suppose it could still be produced with love, but my lover is actually a little woman in Indonesia prepackaging them and flash freezing them and then licking a stamp so that it arrives here in America so my spoiled rotten, Olsen twin admiring self can indulge in the unauthentic experience that is my breakfast.

“It’s going to be $4.53” the barista says.

I almost hand her my card, but then something in me is compelled to start a revolution.

“No.” I reply.

I imagine the barista doesn’t know this, but I’m currently enrolled in an Introduction to African American Studies Course, and doing extremely well. We’re studying civil rights…but….It’s an African American Studies course, so probably 80%  of the course is civil rights…20% talks about Obama.

Regardless, this course has inspired me to fight every injustice I can find. At first my injustices were semi-legitimate, and then I just started getting creative mostly out of boredom. The cafeteria received a letter demanding the eggs be less runny. The bookstore witnessed my one person sit-in movement when they attempted to charge me my net worth in the cost of textbooks I’ll use for one measly semester.

Seriously, I’m on a roll right now. Give me an injustice, yo’ I’ll solve it.

“I don’t want the brownie.” I said.

My demeanor resembling Rosa Parks refusing to give up her seat on a bus. Something in me was preparing for a statue being erected in my honor…or at least a plaque. Lord, I’ll settle for a plaque.

“Do you still want the black iced coffee?” my confused barista asked.

Okay. Let me explain.

I’m all about fighting injustice, but I’m still going to need my morning coffee, at least I can come across a very inexpensive high-grade form of speed. With the rising costs of speed, that might be never.

And so I need my coffee.

I don’t care which people were exploited to produce this coffee.

Authentic experience or not, GIVE ME MY COFFEE!!

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