Coffee: sewage sludge or septic run-off? You decide!

Walking into Starbucks, or really any coffee shop for that matter, my senses are assaulted on all fronts. I’m hit full in the nostrils with the harsh, stale stench of coffee, followed by the nauseatingly sweet odor of a thousand soy and non-fat additives. My eyes struggle in vain to adjust to the dim, cave-like amount of light. I’m roughly shoved aside by a middle-aged SUV driver, late for her morning caffeine-drip. Then, the deadly coup-de-grace is delivered to my already shattered psyche – I hear the faint sounds of Fiona Apple, limp-wristedly plucking away at a guitar and whining about the many, many, many men who have cheated on her.

I topple to the ground in a haze, knocking over a large display of Lenny Kravitz CDs on my way down. Lying there on the cold, trendily colored floor, whimpering softly, my huddled form being pelted with the sharp ends of cellophane-wrapped John Mayer albums, a cheery and green-aproned employee approaches and asks what drink she can “get started” for me today.

This is how trips to Starbucks always end for me; crumbled on the floor, my ears ringing as the cappuccino machine roars to life with the auditory force of an airliner turbine and the middle-aged SUV driver orders a non-fat caramel macchiato with extra whip and a seven dollar bran muffin.

I should clarify that I’m not the biggest fan of coffee. I find it to be an incredibly undrinkable mixture of muddy water and sewage drain-off, akin to the most potent of garden chemicals. Many of my friends and family members enjoy coffee – some very occasionally, others seventeen times a day. Because of this, I am forced to be around the vile liquid fairly often. It might be heating in a pot across the room, bubbling like a pool of hot oil.

Or, it might be as near as the passenger seat of my car as my girlfriend sips away at her extra-hot-non-fat-Grande-San Francisco-ultra-delicious-sponsored-by-T-Mobile-cappa-frappa-drappaccino-white-chocolate-chai-mocha-latte, oblivious to the fact that the fumes are filling my head with thoughts of swerving into the nearest telephone pole, ending it all in the sweet, warm embrace of death.

Whatever the situation might be, I find myself crossing paths with coffee quite often. Almost daily, in fact. With the frequency of our meetings, coffee and I have established a sort of cease-fire. I promise not to violently and randomly knock cups of coffee out of the hands of startled java-drinkers, as long as coffee vows never to touch my lips under any circumstances. This mutual agreement has grown into a grudging respect, and coffee and I exchange curt nods whenever we see each other, offering that ever-so-slight inclination of the head shared by reluctant allies.