Ziv, Part Two

God, I am so congested.

I of course decided to resolve this matter with a large cup of coffee, hafuch (cappucino sans sucre), with extra foam, at Elite Coffee, which is in the University, at which the barrista calls me by name.
By my fake name.
By my fake Hebrew name to which I have begun responding in non-fake-name situations.

Oh dear.
And then, not only did she say "Ziv, right? Hafuch with foam?" (I love her, by the way, even if it is a relationship based on lies, vicious vicious lies) , but then the other two barristas/barristos/guys behind the coffee counter start saying stuff like
"Hey Ziv! Boker Tov!"
"Ziv, it's short for Zivah, right?"
"No dumbass! She said it's just Ziv last week, weren't you listening?"

Okay.
Now.
This could mean one of two things, or possibly both:
a) I go to Elite Cafe Way Too Damn Often, as is demonstrated by the candour with which i relate to it's employees, and by the fact that they recognize me by both face and drink, enough to comment on the fact that my hair is just as nice curly (I've gone there after ironing my hair, and naturally after any important life event, like going to the bathroom or finishing class...I'll probably go there after the birth of my first born, and they'll probably still recognize me by fake name and drink even after 9 months of caffeine-denial...)
b)My three new best friends are going to go through life calling me Ziv, and my other real-life friends will constantly be looking over their shoulders trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

I am such a circus sometimes....