Oh, Too Much Chocolate?!

I just ordered my friend a mocha from a coffee shop, where I asked about the amount of chocolate they put in their mocha, she told me about 3 pumps in a 16 oz... and she said it in such a way to suggest she didn’t even use full pumps. I said “oh, so not too much, then?” She shook her head and I turned around grimacing at the stupidest question ever posed at a coffee shop. I say that knowing some pretty stupid ones, I worked at coffee shops for years- hip establishments, at that... Oh, I didn’t work their long, due to my deficient proclivity to be chic.
“You’re my BEST FRIEND!” I would declare with indiscernible authenticity to the “coolest”, bitchiest co-worker/ manager... She would tell me something about working and I would tell her how we are like sisters.

So here I am posing a hypothetical question to a barista that can only be the evidence of a sheltered life and repeated head injuries: “So not too much chocolate then?” Like she was going to lean in with a slow wink, real slow- questionably slow, and after looking around to make sure no one was watching smirk at me and whisper “no, too much.” Her mouth didn’t move when she said that and come to think of it, she could have thrown her voice in case someone was listening. I turn around with the heavy burden of knowing the weight of the world.. BOOM, the back of the shop explodes and I am knocked to the floor. I am laying in a pool of someone else’s blood, it’s the barista’s- they killed her and now large black boots are running past my face, splashing DNA in the form of waste and brains. My eyes fill with the parts of other people before I go completely unconscious.

When I wake up, I feel like I am made of cement and would like nothing more than to lay back down, but I am chained to a chair in a 200 watt sterile room, when I see myself in a two way mirror. I have been shaved completely and am dressed in a hospital gown, everything is blurry and slow to advance with my gaze. I’ve been drugged- heavily. A voice comes over the intercom in a muffled metallic “Abbey?” “what do you want?!” I say with the effort of a scream, but the result of a whisper. “How did you know about the chocolate?”

You get the gist. I am very important and my questions reflect that. The mocha wasn’t even for me and now I am probably dead- if I continued writing, but I wont because this is a ridiculous topic.