"Hello, we are Those People Who Consume Two-Thirds of our Beverages and Then Complain That They Weren't What They Wanted."

I'm the girl who places her order normally, pays without complaint, patiently waits for her beverage, and then picks it up gratefully and sips it satisfied. I then take my beverage over to a table and sit chatting with my friends. We are all having a good time, and no one appears to be in any way disappointed with their purchases.

Once I have consumed roughly thirteen ounces of my twenty ounce beverage, however, I make a startling discovery: this isn't what I wanted at all! It suddenly occurs to me that this is a hot drink, not an iced one, or that this latte does not in fact have any chocolate in it, or some other similar startling revelation. I angrily storm back up to the counter with my now almost-empty cup and demand a new beverage. The barista tries to point out that I already drank the whole thing without complaint, but I just frustratedly repeat that it was made wrong and I didn't like it. I simply didn't realize that I didn't like it until the drink was almost finished.

It's very nice to meet you.

"Hello, we are Those People Who Defer to the Promises of an Imaginary Barista."

I'm the man who claims to be a regular customer, if by "regular customer" one means "that guy who stopped by once three weeks ago." While placing my order, I inform the workers that I came to an agreement with the barista who works early Thursday afternoons. This helpful employee agreed that I could get soy milk in my drink with no additional charge since I'm lactose intolerant, or that I could purchase a latte for the price of a normal cup of coffee since it's late in the day, or get a free bagel with my beverage since I work for a school district in another county.

The only catch is this: no barista who works at this establishment would make those kinds of promises. The workers ask what this phantom employee looked like, and I respond with something along the lines of, "Oh, it's a girl with long hair, she had on a brown apron," or something equally ambiguous. One of the current baristas mentions that he usually works Thursday afternoons and none of the girls who work during that time would say those kinds of things. Finally, the baristas decline the offer that I insist I was promised. Why won't they believe in my fictitious coffee shop friend?

It's very nice to meet you.

"Hello, we are Those People Who Somehow Turn the Names of Drinks Into Racial Epithets."

I'm the older man who has decided to try out this fancy new coffee shop that his grandchildren like, but has never tried any of the offered drinks save for straight black coffee. I am amused at the complicated concoctions on the menu, and try to remember what my grandkids told me to get. I try to explain the drink to the barista. She tries to help me, but cannot quite help me place the drink.

Suddenly, it clicks. I loudly announce to the server, in a voice the whole coffee shop can hear: "I know now, I want one of those N****r Filipinos!"

The coffee shop goes quiet, although I don't notice. After a few seconds of shocked silence, the barista says, "Um...I think you mean a Mocha Frappucino."

"Yeah, that's what I said," I reply. I notice the people behind me in line are staring at me. What, did I do something wrong?

It's very nice to meet you.

"Hello, we are Those People Who Have Decided to Be Disappointed with Their Drinks Before They Even Order."

I'm the first-time customer who already has a favorite coffee place elsewhere, but has come in here with a friend or at the behest of a coworker. I am not very excited about this change in my routine, and I repeatedly sigh as I scan the menu.

Once I approach the counter, I phrase my order negatively, saying things like, "I'm sure you don't have this, but..." or "I don't usually like [item], but I'll guess I'll have one since I don't see anything else worth getting..." I frown as a speak, talking in a monotonous timbre, as though I am speaking as a witness in a trial or having a painful conversation with an ex. I shake my head as I give the cashier my money, anguished that I am handing over my hard-earned three dollars for this nonsense.

When I receive my order and taste it, I grimace and mutter. I knew this drink was going to be bad. I live a hard life.

It's... sigh... very nice to meet you.