I’m sitting here at my local Starbucks, trying to enjoy a little peace and quiet with an iced caramel cream cold brew—the one thing keeping me from either falling asleep or snapping today. Figured I’d park myself at a corner table, sip on this overpriced caffeine rocket, and chill for a bit. Bad idea. I forgot that Starbucks isn’t a coffee shop anymore—it’s a full-blown social experiment.

As I sit here people-watching (because how can you not), I start noticing a pattern. It’s like everyone falls into one of two tribes. Tribe one: Young kids—teenagers and college-age people—rolling in like they own the place, dropping insane amounts of cash on something called a Pink Drink. I’m sorry, what the actual fuck is a pink drink? That’s the best they could come up with? Just straight-up describing the color like it’s some rare exotic treat? You’d think it was made from unicorn tears the way they fawn over it. One sip, and suddenly they’re posting selfies and hashtagging like they just discovered enlightenment.

Then we’ve got Tribe two: middle-aged moms. They come in, half-sprinting like they just escaped the house for the first time in weeks. And I swear, they all must share the same group text labeled “Too Tight Shorts Club” because holy hell—those things are hanging on tighter than my grip on sanity. I’m talking about fabric so stressed out it should come with a warning label. I get wanting to feel young again, but there’s a fine line between youthful confidence and dressing like you’re headed to a high school kegger in 1998.

And don’t even get me started on the music in here. What even is this playlist? It’s like they told some intern, “Hey, go find the most random mashup of indie ukulele covers and sad whispery pop songs and throw it on loop.” One second I’m hearing some guy softly moan about heartbreak over bongos, and the next it sounds like a lullaby for hipsters. No rhythm, no soul—just a weird background noise that makes my coffee taste more pretentious.

I really tried to relax. I came here to enjoy my drink, maybe check some emails or doomscroll for a bit. But no, instead I’m mentally rating shorts on a “will-they-burst” scale and trying to figure out if Pink Drink is a beverage or a cult.

So yeah, I can’t sit here long. Between the fashion fails, the overpriced liquid sugar, and whatever Spotify hell this place is playing through the speakers, I’m about to lose it. I’m taking my cold brew and hitting the road. Maybe next time I’ll try the library or, I don’t know, a quiet cave.

Stay caffeinated. Stay sane. And for the love of all things holy—stop calling it Pink Drink.