Coffee.

I'm happily standing behind my desk going over some book lists. It's the beginning of the day, I've had my tea, and I'm relatively happy.

"Um, hey? Like, I just dropped my coffee. Someone might want to clean it up."

Before I've even looked up, this girl has walked away and out the front door.
Um, hey? If I spilled a venti cup all over the place, I'd have the decency to walk the five feet back to the cafe and ask for some paper towels. Instead, she walked 20 feet to me, the resident janitor, and then sashayed back past her spilt coffee on her way out.
I storm over to the cafe, grab paper towels, then go clean up the mess. Not only is coffee covering the floor, but books have been splattered.
Seriously? What. the. fuck.

I'm wearing a cute j.crew/banana republic emsemble, and I'm crawling around on the floor mopping up spilt coffee, (which I, of course, end up getting on me). I really fucking hate coffee, the smell is overwhelming, and I look like a moron trying to do this in a skirt. Meanwhile, a line has formed at my desk. I can see the people craning their necks, looking around for someone. I make eye-contact with one of them, indicating that, yes, I see them, but I'm obviously in the middle of a task that is impossible to drop midway.
He looks at me, picks up his books, and waves at me. Really? I mean, really? You want to check out? That wasn't indicated by your standing at the register and looking around for someone to help you. I thought we'd shared an understanding in the three seconds of eye-contact we'd made. As in, "Oh, hello, I see you!" Which must have been interpreted as, "I have coffee all over me! Let me just wipe my hands on my skirt and we'll get started!" Because the fact that I'm on my hands and knees wiping coffee off the floor obviously isn't humiliating enough.
Haaaaaaaaaate.