A funereal drink

coffee-cup-working-happy

My coffee penance is a worse penance than even I deserve. Most mornings the black coffee has notes of a nutty tobacco juice squeezed from the poo of a troll. Some mornings are worse. I drink the acidic byproduct because I must; I try not to think about it too much.

But the truly awful thing about this experiment in mortification is that when I put half-and-half and a teaspoon of sugar in my coffee on Sunday mornings, it isn’t the ecstasy I remember. Maybe more sugar and a Red Bird would do it for me? I don’t know. In the words of the greatest president ever: Sad.

Coffee, my love, what have I done? / Took you for granted; now you’re gone. / By leaving, I chose to be poor / And lost, unable to return / To your electric touch, to your / Sweet bitterness, your silver urn. / Coffee, my love, what have I done? / Wrecked waking’s reason; stole the sun.

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