I don’t know whether I should complain about not getting a straw with my drink at the drive-thru.
I mean, I did get the drink, and yes, it was a good drink because even at eight p.m. the temperature was 92 degrees, and my drink had ice. It had a lid. It was everything I could have wanted, except…
It feels dumb to write about not getting a straw, y’know? Like my entire life doesn’t hinge on whether or not I get it. One more piece of questionably sourced plastic is, for a brief moment, unused. And it’s not like I don’t have options. I just…
I just wanted to be valued enough to where that wasn’t forgotten. You had two ladies in the window. One had her back to customers, but you could tell she cared about herself. Her hair was immaculate and on point. The one I spoke with was polite and had a beautiful smile. So…
Why does this matter to me? I mean, I’m not the type of person who ever fills out those customer satisfaction surveys because that’s a sure way to get stuck on email lists. I don’t want more email. I really don’t want to complain. But I can’t stop feeling hurt. And it’s stupid, and it’s dumb, and a big corporation could never break my heart now, really, but after this year…
After this…life, I guess, of masks and patience and vaccination and irrational anger over things completely outside my control but still making me want to scream at something, scream at the dog, scream at the TV, scream at all the people who just don’t care, I want a straw.
A final straw.