I have a secret to reveal. I… I love girly coffee.
You see, I’m supposed to be a man. I’m supposed to be tough. I’m SUPPOSED to like my coffee black. Black like the night. Black like the abyss (my coffee stares into me). Black like the emo sun. My coffee isn’t supposed to have creamer, or sugar, or whipped cream, or French/Italian things in it.
But I love them so.
You see, pops explained it to me. On the ship, sometimes you go through hardship. Although they never ran out of coffee (if they had, either the crew would have mutinied or, worse, every Chief on the boat would have gone into a coma), sometimes, you know, they didn’t have creamer. Or sugar. Or those little stirring straw/stick buggers. So what would happen? Suddenly the cries ring out: “Oh no! Now I can’t have coffee because there are no individual packets of half and half!!!“ So what’s the solution? That’s right, drink your coffee black. That way you can always drink your coffee. And that’s how I drank my coffee.
But then what happens? Somebody gives me a Starbucks gift card.
Now, being against girly (at this point I’d like to apologize for calling any coffee that is not black “girly.” I am very sorry to all those girls that drink their coffee black. I am not sorry to all those guys that drink their coffee girly. Like me. sob) coffee, I had never been to Starbucks. But, it was $25 of free caffeine. So hell, why not. I walk into my local Starbucks. I say “Give me what you’d order.” The girl behind the counter goes “I dunno, I don’t really drink Starbucks.” True story. But while that trip was a failure, the other $22.14 worth of coffees weren’t. In fact, they were whipped cream-covered odyssey of lip-smacking delight.
This was the beginning of my downfall.
From then on, I almost couldn’t go without my girly coffee. I would spend $3.50 on a caramel whatsit or a cup-o-doom at the library café. I began to notice Starbucks. You know what’s really awesome? French Vanilla Lattés from those automatic coffee machines. Those are amazing. Sure, I still drink black coffee. But what I really want as I’m sipping that bitter concoction of manliness is something that’s half hot milk. I’m ashamed to admit it. When I’m at a gas station, I have to lower my head in shame as I fail to fill my cup from the ubiquitous glass enclosure of crazy-goat juice, and instead push the button on that magical machine.
I don’t think there’s anything I can do at this point. The love is far too entrenched. I can’t break it. You can’t take it away from me. I love my girly coffee. It’s a love I’m ashamed off. But it’s something I will have to deal with. Because dagnabbit, that shit’s tasty. Fuckin’ Starbucks.
