So I used to hate coffee.
Then I became addicted to it.
Actually, despite the addiction, I still hate coffee. It is the most vile, bitter-tasting form of liquid evil I’ve ever had the misfortune to become hopelessly dependent on.
I used to liken it to drinking from a colostomy bag where the contents are still piping hot, but the missus, her mug firmly in hand, insists I stop saying that out loud while she’s drinking hers.
But man, does it pick you up in the morning.
I get around the horror of coffee’s flavor the way most people would. I drink my coffee one part coffee, two parts sugar, and two parts whipping cream.
I have a very large coffee mug.
This makes drinking the brew survivable, but has done little to help me in the jowl and neck fat department.
My problem with coffee is that the instant stuff tastes like it was summoned from a hell dimension that is, in actuality, a clogged celestial toilet for demons whose diet consists of garlic, pepper spray, and chalk.
No amount of cream and sugar can mask that taste.
But I need my coffee, and first thing in the morning, I am simply too tired and strung out to make a proper cup.
I tried an IV line to keep the edge off while I slept, but I toss and turn a lot and the line kept coming loose. I had the annoying habit of coming awake with a surprisingly large portion of my now coffee-soaked goose down pillow in my mouth, a primal need driving me to suck up the precious remnants that my body craved.
If you think coffee tastes bad without cream and sugar, try it filtered through goose feathers.
Not to mention I’m anemic and bleed like crazy from the holes left by IV lines ripping loose. My arms have more jagged tracks on them than a major metropolitan train station after a derailment, and I now buy blood-red sheets to save on laundry costs.
As with all problems I face, I eventually found a solution. Not a pleasant one, mind you, but a solution nonetheless.
It involved firearms, a coffee shop just before opening, a funnel, and an empty backpack pesticide sprayer.
This plan misfired spectacularly first try, when in my exhaustion-muddled, caffeine-withdrawn state, I tried to steal coffee from a donut shop.
A donut shop full of cops.
You’d think prison would cure you of your coffee addiction, but there are ways, even in prison, to get coffee.
Don’t ask. I prefer not to think about it.
Fortunately, California’s judicial system recognizes the need to intervene over punish when it comes to substance abuse, and my sentence was commuted to lifetime community service without parole.
Every weekend I work in a medical waste facility, handling used colostomy bags.
It makes me want a cup of coffee.
So now I have a slightly better plan.
I have two coffee makers. My $1000 dollar espresso machine and my thrift shop-rescued Mr. Coffee.
Mr. Coffee makes me a cup of caffeinated laxative by-product, which first thing in the morning, I manage to get down before being awake enough to realize what I’m doing. Mr. Coffee’s brew does little to excite my taste buds (I think they’d run in terror if they could), but it does get me awake enough to make a proper cup of the black stuff.
Black gold, Texas tea, coffee.
Right about when the espresso is ready, my morning delivery of cream and sugar arrives.
I get very irate when the delivery is late.
You think caffeine addiction makes you crave coffee, try wanting desperately to wash the taste of Mr. Coffee out of your mouth with a properly constructed espresso.
But unspeakable depravity that it may be to drink Mr. Coffee’s craptastic offering, I will concede this: it works.
You see? There is no problem that cannot be solved with a judicious application of caffeine. Which is how I intend to solve my current woe: inexplicable insomnia.
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Marlowe and the Spacewoman: