OP-ED: I Only Go to Metro Because I Love Verbal Abuse

My Sunday hangover ritual necessitates a stop at Metropolitan Cafe. The quaint little brunch spot is my favorite place to nurse a hangover on a Sunday morning. I don’t go for the so-so lattes though or for Metro's selection of middling paninis, wraps, and salads. No, as a proud masochist and a vocal member of the BDSM community, nothing gets me going more than the verbal abuse that I suffer at the hands of the Metro employees. 

Everyone loves Sunday morning sex, and I am no exception. But luckily for me, I don’t need some flaky hook-up to satisfy my pre-breakfast cravings. For me, there is no better feeling in the world than when the cashier mocks me for not wanting roasted red peppers on my roasted portobello mushroom panini. I NEED to be called out for being the little bitch that I am, and so I really appreciate that I can always count on a Metro employee to spit on my breakfast burrito and chuck it at me from across the counter any Sunday morning. Whenever I ask for a nice chai, I know that I can count on the barista to scoff at my embarrassingly basic taste in caffeinated beverages. I am a vanilla bitch, and Metro never lets me forget it. 

Oh, and I mean, the kind, older lady who works there is pretty nice, I guess. She’s not as good at inflicting verbal abuse as the other employees, but that’s ok. She’ll get better at it with some practice. Give her a couple of weeks and she’ll stop asking me about how my day’s going and start asking if I’ve maybe eaten a couple Pesto Pesto grilled cheeses too many. But that’s ok. I wouldn’t want it any other way.