I’m Coming Out Of The Closet
I hate coffee.
I hate coffee so much.
I kept thinking I’d grow out of it. No. I hate the sour taste of it, the way it clings to my tongue. I literally can’t sit in coffee shops that roast and grind their own beans, because the acrid stench makes me sick to my stomach.
I actually drink all those weird eggnog lattes and caramel crappiatos from Starbucks, because the syrups go some way towards masking that infernal taste when I absolutely can’t do without caffeine.
By God, the stuff is disgusting. I don’t care if it’s Stumptown, Intelligentsia or Maxwell House: I can recognize the differences in flavor, sure, but they’re all just different shades of grotesque to me.
In coming out of the anti-coffee closet, I am calling a truce with picky eaters, a group I had previously been inclined to dismiss as sub-human. No doubt some of them are petulant control freaks, but if even a small fraction of them experience the foods they hate with anything like what I go through with coffee, they deserve not contempt, but commiseration.