I’ve been living a lie.
A big fat, brown coloured lie. A lie held in a biodegradable paper cup with a sippy lid and a hipster cafe stamp on the side.
It goes like this:
I need coffee like a fish needs water. Every day. Like Taylor Swift needs a girl squad. Like Kimmy K needs Instagram.
Luckily, the streets around my workplace host a glut of cafes to select my morning brew from. Each of them competing with each other for the title of Most Serious About Coffee and Most Judgy about your choice of milk/froth/chocolate sprinkles.
You can tell how serious they are by following these simple visual cues:
In the offices here we’re basically on the IV drip of the stuff. There are multiple coffee runs during the day. And each time, I say sheepishly “That’s ok guys. I’m ok.”
Because here’s the thing: I reckon instant coffee is just as good. Yes, I love the powdery stuff that comes from a jar.
AND I’M TIRED OF PRETENDING IT’S NOT.
It’s great that your coffee was roasted by Tibetan monks from paleolithic activated beans. I know I’m supposed to appreciate the difference. But a lot of the time, it tastes weird. It tastes a bit metallic, like it’s got blood in it, like they forgot to clean the machine, or they left the cleaning stuff IN the machine.