Ah, there it was, sitting on my desk, waiting to baptize my throat in its warm, tingly rejuvenation. My most beloved morning ritual always sparked in me such an elation that remained comparable only with the likes of bungee hopscotch and high velocity yodeling. Without my badass barista blended beverage, my days would plummet into a tumultuous excursion through the very bowels of hell-dom. And let me assure you, I am not given to bouts of exaggeration.
But it was to be a morning like no other.
My hand instinctively gripped its container gingerly, and carefully navigated towards my mouth. One wrong move would send the oversized straw painfully up my nose. Most do not understand that proper mocha consumption is a true art, but I have spent many hours perfecting my performance, so the occasional nasal injuries are few and far between. As the plastic tube rested assuringly in my mouth, I closed my eyes, as if in prayer, and took a reverent sip.
That was when I realized that something was amiss.
The welcoming warmth was replaced with a chill that could only come from acute refrigeration. Someone had sabotaged my delightful drink by cooling it with unnatural forces. Outraged, I pushed myself from my desk, brandishing my mocha like a weapon, and shouted, “Who dared to tamper with my coffee?”
A passerby I recognized as a family member gazed quizzically for a moment before replying, “That’s orange juice.”
“Nonsense!” I declared. They shrugged calmly and walked away. “I will use my carefully meticulous mental prowess to solve this mystery and bring the offender to justice!”
1 2 3
