Shit happens

I've had some well-documented trouble getting over (and under...) Hottie McLatte. After more than two weeks of rushing to Starbucks after work, hopefully scanning the counter for his perfect face, I came up empty every time. He was really gone.

I used to love Starbucks, especially in the winter, when I would indulge in its seasonal drinks, and take shelter in its super-heated, gently lit interior. All that nostalgia is gone now. The coffee doesn't taste as good if McLatte doesn't pour it. Living in the fallout of our love affair, even the service seems less friendly.

But this morning, I was the subject of a divine intervention, orchestrated by Howard Schultz himself. He felt me slip away. He also needs to find a way to keep his customers paying $4.00 for coffee that takes 43 cents to make, all while they foreclose their houses and file for bankruptcy. So this morning, there was a girl on the corner near Copley Square, handing out $5 gift cards. At first I didn't see what she was giving away, but I smiled and made eye contact, because that's what I do. I analyze the irises of poor little creatures banished to the city streets in the name of marketing promotions. I was especially grateful when she handed me my gift card.

So this afternoon, when I left work, I decided to stop by Starbucks and treat myself to the gingersnap latte that I've been dying to try. I was delighted to find that the girl on the corner had given me not one, but two! gift cards. Double the latte, double the fun. This was a good sign. Would McLatte be back where he belongs?

It should be noted there is a Starbucks right near where my internship is, but I rarely go there, because McLatte's ghost does not linger in those walls. So, I headed to my old haunt, placed my order, and waited for the barista to make my drink. He seemed backed up, so I texted Ashley that H.M. was officially gone, never to be heard from again, and oh, woe is me, how will I ever go on?

I hit send, and McLatte LITERALLY COMES RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER. He is dressed in street clothes, and had been talking to a manager in the atrium area that adjoins the store. McLatte didn't see me, and he headed for the door. I watched him walk in the direction of the train station I go to... could McLatte be commuting, like me? He slipped away into the night before Dumby McStupid could put together my gingersnap latte. As soon as the drink was made, I ran out into the street. I don't know why, because what did I think would happen? But I guess by now, you all should know about my unreasonable amount of emotional investment in this invented friendship. Clear thinking went out the window after I got my first discount.

So I crossed the street and was walking toward the station, when I felt a cool wetness on my pants. I looked down. Poop. Bird poop, on my leg. I was pooped on. In my quest to find McLatte love, I was literally shat upon. The world is laughing at me.

There are two ways to think about this. One, that it is a final sign that McLatte and I were not McMeantToBe. Or, my mother's school of thought, which says that if you are pooped on by a bird, you should buy a lottery ticket. The poop, you see, is a good luck charm.

I am curious as to your thoughts, and if you will sit with me, here, just for a moment, and picture the torture of McLatte wandering into the dark night, out of sight, as I stood waiting impatiently for my drink. And tell me in the comments... is the poop good luck, or a death certificate for my pretend romance?

Just for good measure, I don't drive to work, but if I did... could this happen?