They’ve opened a Starbucks in my bedroom.
I’m not positive I gave Starbucks permission to open a store in my home, but they claim I did, and I make bad decisions when I drink, so who knows?
Now it’s here, where my closet was. Logo near my ceiling, countertop coffee makers, eerily perky coffee girl, always staring at me in a friendly but somewhat blank manner.
Lite jazz wakes me each day.
Frankly, I don’t see how it stays in business. I don‘t even like coffee.
But that’s not my problem. It’s not MY Starbucks, it’s just in my bedroom.