My Day with the Unicorn Frappuccino

Do you have one of those friends that you do everything with? You can pretty much always call them and they’ll be up for anything. They’ll never say your idea is stupid. You can be your whole and complete self around them. If have one, you’re picturing them right now. It’s an “I promise I hang out with other people, I just have the most stories with her.” kind of friendship.

Luckily for me, I work with mine. So when I roll into work on a gray April morning, double-tap the horn while blasting Joyce Manor because we’ve arrived at the same time on Unicorn Drink Debut Day, it’s totally fucking obvious what is about to go down. Now, I don’t go a day without coffee, so it’s not like I replaced my typical 16 oz medium roast with this grandiose American monstrosity. It was my second Starbucks consumption of the day, if that makes it better.

The baristas at the Starbucks by work are awesome. They remember my bland, normal person drink order from every other day and their jaws hit the floor when they find out what I’m getting. They take a picture of Best Friend and me with our drinks for their store’s Instagram. We’re honored.

As I begin to experience the same cognitive dissonance I felt in Disney World’s Animal Kingdom, it’s time to inhale Suspension of Disbelief and exhale Any Idea That I Am or Was Ever Cool. We take photos of our drinks with our names at different angles on the Starbucks bar. Then selfies. Then we go outside and take turns posing under the cherry blossom tree. Then next to a cop car because we could be “arrested for being so basic” lol get it?

If you want to know about flavor, I don’t know if I’m really the one to ask. It tasted kinda like cotton candy, pixie dust, and pop rocks? It was sorta chalky? I drank it all. I have impulse control issues. Above all else, it was just a fucking blast to drink. Truthfully, it was like eating a TV dinner. If my mom saw me, she would yell at me.

When half of the non-biodegradable plastic is empty and the glitter it once held is now painting my insides, I can no longer concentrate on work. I suddenly need to build a playlist for the day, remember what I learned in 11th grade history, and enthrall my co-worker with a fascinating story she couldn’t give a fuck about. YO THE RIOT FEST LINEUP IS LIT! I’m like a coked up 22 year old at an after party for the first time. Sure, I like candy and shit, but I am just not someone who consumes sugar in large quantities. When I’ve tracked food, I naturally cap out at 20g of sugar a day unless I’m stress eating entire creme brulees. As if I don’t punish my poor liver enough with all of my binge drinking, here pancreas HAVE AN INSULIN SPIKE!

I decide to GTFO of the office so I can get my activity up and actually make things happen. It works for awhile. I drink a ton of water with the idea that it can cleanse my system. I’m craving more and more sugar. Obviously I resist because I have exactly zero interest in continuing this cycle.  

Sitting in my car at 2:30, wondering why I feel like plagiarizing the words “Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead” Morgan Spurlock’s floating head materialized on my dashboard to lecture me about putting poison like this in my body. When was the last time I updated my will? Who wants all of my old journals? No one, probably. But someone is going to get them because they are hilarious. There was an article in Vice a few weeks ago that said millennials are getting stomach cancer at an “alarming rate” and everytime I do something bad I think about it. In the summer of 2011, my nihilist uncle coined the term Russian Ballerina Diet, meaning a shot of vodka and cigarette. It feels like an RBD could appropriately complete the self immolation.  

Around 4:00, a migraine starts to form on the sides of my temples. It’s pushing out the suspension of disbelief. I’m starting to remember who I really am. I hate pinterest food and time lapse facebook videos with questionable cheese content. I despise people who over post these things they will never – and frankly should never – have on their dining room table. Fast food gimmicks make me suicidal. Chain restaurants are for midwesterners, aside from their comedic value on the Doughboys podcast. If the future of gastronomy lays in the hands of franken features like the Starbucks Unicorn Frappuccino, we are all doomed.

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