Working at the juice bar was never easy, especially with entitled customers like the one we nicknamed “Miss Pompous.” She strutted in one morning, ordered carrot juice, and after one sip, hurled the entire drink into my face. Laughter rippled through the store as humiliation burned in my cheeks. My manager apologized to her instead of me, making me feel smaller than ever.

But I wasn’t about to let her win. While pretending to redo her order, I grabbed the toughest, ugliest carrot I could find and fed it into the juicer. Juice sprayed everywhere — including onto her $3,000 designer purse. Her shriek was priceless as she clutched the stained bag, demanding I pay for it. I kept my expression innocent, claiming it was just an “accident.”

The next day, she stormed back with threats, demanding I be fired. The store owner calmly pulled up the security footage — showing her throwing juice at me first. Her tirade crumbled as the truth played on the screen. The owner banned her from the store, reminding her we had the right to protect employees from abuse.

As she stormed out for the last time, my coworkers high-fived me, and I finally felt proud. That night, telling my mom and sister, I realized I hadn’t just stood up to Miss Pompous — I’d reclaimed my dignity. Sometimes, karma doesn’t need help. But when it does, a little carrot juice works wonders.