Oh, I see you staring at me from the other side of this Starbucks. I know it looks like you're reading that two-month-old copy of Newsweek, but really, you see me, and you want me. That's right; just let those eyes peek out from the top of that article about rising gas prices. I've got something rising right here, and much like the oil bubble you're reading about, I'm ready to burst.

Ah, you seem to have noticed the stain on my shirt. I bet you think it's just a coffee stain, right? Wrong! It's a double-mocha-frappa-chai-latte with, wait for it, 9 shots of espresso. Are you impressed that my drink takes over a minute and half to order? Well I am, and let me tell you, I am not easily impressed. I thought Citizen Kane was only OK. That takes guts, and balls, and I've got both. I don't have a spleen though; I hope that's not a problem. Oh yeah, that espresso is starting to hit me now! My heart rate is about triple what a human's heart rate should be. I won't lie to you; I'm probably going to suffer a heart attack…an attack of love! I may also die from an actual heart attack, but that's neither here nor there.

I'm just going to take a seat here next to you. What? Oh, yeah, I know this coffee shop is not nearly filled to capacity, and I could have taken any of the 17 other seats available, all of which are at a more comfortable distance between us, but that's just not how I live my life. I go wherever the world takes me, and today, it took me all over. I went to a Chinese massage parlor today. That's right, I'm worldly and cultured. I know what you're thinking; those places have a bit of a reputation. I get it. But don't worry Baby; much like the delicious drink I'm sipping so seductively, I'm filled to the brim with cream, just waiting to burst out of that long, thin straw. Oh, I know you like them thin, and believe me, I've got the thinnest.

Hey sweet thing, could I borrow a napkin? Sorry, don't take it the wrong way, that wasn't me trying to flirt with you. I've spilled literally half of my drink on my pants and I really need to clean myself up. I mean, I could flirt with you, if I wanted to, but I don't think it would be fair. It would be like hunting a deer with a deer-seeking-missile: I would totally win. You wouldn't be able to handle my charms. What, you think you can? All right, here it goes:

"I would totally have sex with you right now."

I'm, sorry, that didn't come out right. I think the double-mocha-frappa-chai-latte with the 9 shots of espresso has gone to my head. It's the 9th shot that does it, I've really got to learn to watch myself when I'm around Italian coffee beverages.

Whoah, whoah, there's no need to get the manager involved. Why do you want me thrown out? What, is it illegal to love? To feel? Or is it something else? Can you not handle my raw sexuality? You don't think I have raw sexuality? Believe me Sweetie, I do; it's right next to my pure masculinity.

Okay, okay, I'll go. I'll take my business elsewhere. I'll leave. And as I graze your boob, totally innocuously on the way out, remember this: you could have been with me, in my 1997 Mazda, and it would have been the greatest ride of your life. Then we would have made sweet passionate love, and it would have been somewhere around the more mediocre rides of your life. It could have been better, but I didn't drink enough double-mocha-frappa-chai-latte, because most of it is on my pants, staining my crotch.

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