Cawffee and Complications, Anyone?

          As we venture away from crueler times, also known as summer, I can’t help but yearn for that early morning cup of hot black coffee without breaking a sweat. Yes, I’m a psycho and drink hot coffee in 100-degree weather. I rarely drink iced coffee. It’s caffeinated optimism in a plastic cup. I prefer hot coffee because I like to be reminded that in pain and suffering, there’s always more where that comes from: steam, burn, bitterness, the complete suffering sampler.

    Speaking of crueler times… Once upon a simpler, crueler time, people actually asked each other out for a cup of coffee. Imagine that: boiling water, burnt beans, and awkward eye contact. Now you’d think suggesting such a thing is akin to asking someone to sign over their soul. One must admit, though, that would at least be more efficient. And yes, I’m always very happy — sometimes even ashamedly smiling — at a cup of espresso. Don’t tell anyone.

     Regretfully, the world has managed to make one of the cheapest, most accessible drinks into a social Everest. Everyone’s a wise guy with hypothetical rock-climbing equipment and perpetually no funds. People swipe, scroll, ghost, and then post essays about “intentional dating” yet can’t stomach the horror of sitting across from another breathing human and holding a cup. A cursed chalice of caffeine, apparently too much to bear.

  Don’t get me started on the phrase “intentional dating.” One dates with an intention, good or bad. Why the redundancy? It’s the same affliction that compels people to say, “ATM machine.”

  And what if you’re not dating, you ask? What if you just want friends, acquaintances, accomplices, or an alibi? Here’s my metric: if you invite me into your home, I’ll know who you are by whether or not you offer me a cup of coffee. It’s tap water and grounds, but it’s also a litmus test. If you can’t extend even that, then congratulations- you’re not thrifty, you’re spiritually poor.

  And yes, I can already hear the protests: “But what if we’re not a coffee-drinking house?” Congratulations, you’ve chosen asceticism. That’s your lifestyle, not my problem. Keep your herbal infusions. This is about coffee, the universal offering, the dark currency of basic human decency. If you don’t drink it yourself, fine. But a true host still keeps a jar of grounds in the pantry, the way one keeps candles for a blackout. Cue the classist police to scream into the void. Alas, I don’t need artisanal pour-overs or beans blessed by monks in Ethiopia. A mug, a gesture, and a little bitterness (in the cup, not just in your personality) will suffice.

  But maybe that’s the real gothic tragedy. People would rather pretend they’re above coffee than admit they’re afraid of intimacy. The irony? Coffee is both the cheapest escape and the most honest confrontation. You sip, you talk, you risk the silence. Nothing glamorous about it. Just heat, liquid, and the subtle realization that the person across from you may not even deserve your caffeine.

So yes, in this age of emotional bankruptcy, the measure of generosity is a cup. And if you can’t manage that, then maybe the darkness you carry isn’t romantic or friendly – it’s just empty.