Red Cup


It’s that time of year. When you go into Starbucks and are greeted with a red cup. I don’t go to Starbucks that much, as I recently realized that No, I don’t actually like your coffee, and No, your $4 drinks aren’t worth it. However, I did end up in there this week after the Peet’s parking lot was closed and I was forced to go to Starbucks (thank you alarm clock, for lacking in your only job). And there it was. A red cup. I usually bring my own cup, but as I was running late, I failed to grab my cup. So there I was, with two options: no coffee, or red cup. In retrospect, I should have gotten iced coffee, since it was 80 degrees anyways, but I chose the red cup.

I don’t like red cup when I am sweating. Mainly because I don’t like Christmas when it’s not Christmas. I only like Christmas in the 1940s-approved time slot: from Thanksgiving to Christmas. That means that on Thanksgiving, I will be listening to “A Very Special Christmas” 1-5 and live. I will also be listening to Mr. James Taylor. And it will be splendid. But until then, I hold a strict “No Christmas” policy. Meanwhile, I’d like Starbucks to keep Christmas to themselves, and maybe supply some plain cups for those of us who like to enjoy the holiday when appropriate.

And that, folks, is what I think about red cup.


About sorellaaglio

I am 26. I love nature. I love trying new things, and I love children. I love cooking, baking, and sometimes even cleaning. I am an organized mess, and yet manage to eat three meals a day and get eight hours of sleep a night. If you stop by, I'll feed you and make you a mixed CD. Oh, and I am a fan of you.
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