text: WC: 524 Rain pattered the window of the diner hard, as I sipped my coffee. Though sometimes I wonder why I drink it all. So much regular drinking of the bitter beverage made me nearly unaffected by it. I still don’t enjoy the unpleasant taste, I more tolerate it for the high I supposedly get. So, I drink more and more cups of the black drink until I feel energized, or can bear it no longer. But why do I subject myself to such a thing? People add things to their drink, make it taste better, have less of an edge on their tongue, help them pretend they really love it a little bit more, a reason to drink it. But that’s not *true* coffee, is it? Those are things that help you ignore how acrid it really is. I take a sip, and it scorches my tongue. Why not, then, just accept that it doesn’t really matter how I take my coffee. Add as much milk or sugar as my heart desires. Hell, add sprinkles and caramel, and whipped cream on top. Who cares? It’s my coffee after all. I smack my lips, I imagine my tongue is stained brown by now. Either way, whatever it’s advertised to do is not happening to me, that’s for sure. I feel as tired as ever. But, for some reason, I find myself continuously hoping that my black coffee, uncontaminated by the ideas and flavors of anything else, will give me the true effect. A fuller experience, an experience that the first men who ever drank coffee felt. It feels noble, to bear the brunt of the terrible flavor for the reward of breathing life into my mornings. I take a larger gulp, now that it's nearly room temperature. This is the taste my forefathers settled with, the boost of energy they so loved and desired. But this coffee, goddamnit, tastes horrible. I’m sick of drinking it every morning before taking on my other obligations for the day. The taste lingers on my tongue indefinitely. Why not just never drink it again. Smash my mug on the floor, tell the waitress to go fuck herself, and never look back... That’s irrational. That’s not fair to her, or the people who will have to clean my mess out of the carpet. I slowly swallowed more. Maybe if I simply went to another diner. Fancier diner. Higher quality java. Buy my own espresso machine, do it my own way, self-determination. But coffee is coffee anywhere and coffee is coffee made in any way. Is everyone in the world just pretending to like coffee? What did my “forefathers” love so much about this? Was life really that bad that this was the highlight of their day? Built coffee houses to enshrine how much they loved the damn bean? I might as well just- I went for another drink but felt nothing but air on my lips. “Another cup, honey?” My hands slowly lowered the mug onto the table. I gazed at the waitress blankly. Her head gently gestured to the coffee pot in her right hand. “Yes. Yes, I’ll have another cup.