One week until Russia...

...and all I can think about is the tragic fact that no matter how beautiful and talented and wonderful you think you are, there is always a smolderingly hot barista out there who will reduce you to a quivering pile of insignificance. The situation is made worse by the nature of the customer-barista relationship: he is the one behind the cash register, and you are the one handing him your hard-earned money so that he can fuel your addiction. He's thinking about the milk-to-espresso ratio while you're mentally rehearsing conversations you might be able to strike up with him in that sliver of time between ordering and getting change. You have to swallow your pride and accept that this man quite probably has a girlfriend with spiky hair who paints and bartends and wears vintage dresses, and they're going to meet up after work to go hear that obscure new band at that obscure new bar while you go home and try to fashionably cut up a tee you bought at Old Navy that has "Pete's Hardware Store" or something similar written on it in cutesy lettering.
Sigh.
Another thing I realized is that the last time I went to Russia was five years ago. At first I didn't think it felt like that long. But then I realized that when we went to Russia, Fanta was this awesome, exotic soft drink only available in Europe, and now, five years later, I'm overjoyed to be putting the Atlantic Ocean between myself and those FUCKING Fantanas. I confess that I used to Wanta Fanta, but I was young and stupid. Currently I Wanta Vodka, but something tells me that beverage won't have cute, peppy spokespeople or rhyming couplets anytime soon.
"Life getting you down a bit?
This'll get you drunk as shit!"
See?