Ahoy, gentle readers and frappé fanatics, ‘tis I, Jon, your begrudging harbinger of all things caffeinated and spicy, presenting to you yet another chronicle from the pumpkin-infused abyss.
Coffeeville, perched precariously on the edge of the well-trodden paths of Camp Humphreys, with its aromatic tendrils of temptation, wafted into our nostrils, guiding us, unwillingly yet irresistibly, into the lair of pumpkin-spiced doom.
THE BATTLE
Behold! A solemn battlefield where many a basic warrior has fallen, surrendering to the spicy, sweet siren call of the PSL. Sylvya and I, once proud defenders against the pumpkin-tainted dark arts, now find our armor corroding under the insipid siege of cinnamon and nutmeg.
With trepidation bubbling in our caffeinated veins, we ordered - YES, dear reader, *ordered* - the hot variant of this notorious brew, silently signaling our flailing surrender to the basic side.
“I shan’t falter,” whispered my inner, black coffee-loving soul, yet here I am, scoring this treacle an 8/10 on the Yoga Pants Scale™️. As the liquid descended, a flannel shirt materialized upon my being, and lo! A pair of Ugg boots snugly enveloped my feet. Resistance, it seems, is futile.
Sylvya, the erstwhile beacon of PSL moderation, with a glimmer of both acceptance and defeat in her eyes, gracefully yielded a score of 7. With each sip, her skepticism waned, replaced by an acceptance of our inexorable journey into basicness. Her once-ironclad defenses now mere whispers against the mighty wind of autumnal consumerism.
Russell, the Enigma
And in the midst of our crumbling resistance stood Russell, an enigmatic fortress of decimal-drenched defiance, bequeathing a perplexing 4.6/10. His inscrutable methodology, ever a bulwark against the unbridled embrace of basicness, leaves us pondering, pondering evermore.
In the caramel-colored shadows of Coffeeville, just beyond the gates of Camp Humphreys, our trio stared into the abyss, and the abyss, adorned with scarves and sunglasses, stared right back, whispering, “Fall is life.”
And thus, dear imbibers of our tale, we find our heroes ensnared by the velvety tendrils of the PSL, their resistance waning under the autumnal onslaught of spiced surrender.
OVERALL BASIC B*TCH TOTAL: 6.5 YOGA PANTS
Conclusions?
Are we, then, mere pawns in this grand, pumpkin-spiced chessboard, fated to submit to the basic bitch within us all? Only time, and perhaps a few more chapters of this frothy odyssey, shall reveal the destiny of our plucky protagonists.
For now, we ride into the sunset, our beverages steaming, our wills wavering, and our yoga pants... ever so stretchy.
Stay spicy, my friends, and may your lattes be ever in your flavor.
Yours in jaded java,
Jon, Sylvya, & the inscrutable Russell – teetering on the brink of the PSL abyss.
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