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Let me start by saying that I like coffee. Not love, because I don’t equate my feelings for it with things that are truly important, like my family, friends, or Sour Cream and Onion Pringles. I know where my priorities are. But by all means, if I’m a little slow in the mornings, nothing like a nice little cup of coffee to get you going and let you deliciously suppress your body’s desire to sleep. I understand the appeal, and don’t deny anyone their right to really enjoy the stuff. But it’s not meth, and people need to stop treating it with the kind of fervor usually reserved for things that people named Crystal cook in their trailers.

If you are the kind of person who goes on a thirty-five minute tangent about how “OH MY GOD I NEED MY COFFEE I AM SUCH A WRECK WITHOUT IT UGH I WOULD DIE IF IT WEREN’T FOR MY COFFEE AMIRITE?!?” you need to not only get a grip on the meaning of the word “need,” but you also need to re-asses the hilarity of those webcomics you love to post everywhere that echo your inability to function without a morning cup of bean residue. Talking about how you ~*~omg totes need ur caffeine to function~*~ is the conversational equivalent of reading a Cathy comic. No one needs coffee. You could do with tea, or without anything, if the occasion called for it. Giving a crabby look and snapping that you “haven’t had your coffee” is being a child who refuses to sit still until he is given his pacifier. We all have problems, let’s be adults.

And for the people who may or may not “need” it in that egregious first world problems-sense, but who treat coffee as though it’s some kind of amalgam of wine, fois gras, and canary diamonds — you, too, should consider getting a grip. Now, I don’t care if you want to be the kind of guy who goes on a ten-minute tangent about the roundness of the mouthfeel of the Papua New Guinea Reserve you just got in (I have worked at a brutally hipster coffee shop, I know that some of these people can be nice deep down), but don’t treat everyone else like a mouth-breathing neanderthal if they enjoy a little sugar and cream. There’s no reason to look at someone as though they’re personally stabbing you if you mention how you like Frappucinos, or think that Dunkin’ Donuts makes a really good roast (WHICH IS TRUE, DAMNIT). The thing is, going to “cuppings” — a wine tasting for coffee, essentially — or “barista jams” — yes, people actually say this word with no trace of irony — is great! Everyone’s allowed their niche interests. But the rest of us aren’t philistines because we like the errant Caramel Macchiato, and no amount of “but you really need to drink this one at precisely 110 degrees, anything more and you lose that chocolate finish” is going to convince us not to just want to dump three Splenda in.

I say this with love, because I feel like our relationship with coffee has gotten so strange as a culture in the past twenty years, and we should be focusing such absurd attention on something that is really worth getting so obnoxious over — like whether the Euro will be around in 2 years, and if Germany is going to become the de facto ruler of any federation that might arise.*

*Just kidding, I meant whiskey.

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I lie sometimes. I say things that aren’t true and send them off into the universe, giving karma the middle finger. But my lies are small and largely inconsequential. I lie mostly about stupid stuff like when someone asks me if I’ve seen a certain movie and I say yes even though I haven’t. This is a courtesy lie though. Instead of making the person explain the plot and the significance, I’m allowing them to just make their point and move on to the next topic. See? Easy breezy.

Some people I know though—people who I have actually been good friends with for certain periods of time—are pathological liars. They’ll lie about anything, no matter how big or small, out of a compulsion or an insecurity or, as often is the case, they’re just insane. I hate these people. They weird me out. Their stories often don’t add up and they get  caught in a lie, which you just usually have to ignore because it would be too uncomfortable to call them out on it. So you just have to pretend what they’re saying is true while nodding politely even though you’re secretly freaking out. Yeah. Having pathological liars for friends is not fun.

I once lived with a girl who would lie about everything. She claimed she was a nationally-ranked tennis player, even though she was a waitress at a trendy restaurant, and she once told me that a coffee she purchased at a pricey cafe cost her fifteen dollars. Fifteen dollars for a cup of coffee. When someone tells you something that is so blatantly a lie, what do you say exactly? “That’s impossible. A coffee can’t cost that much. Show me your receipt!” You can let then know that what they’re telling you is hard to believe but what you can’t get in their face about it. Because oftentimes, compulsive liars believe their own stories. They’re, in fact, delusional. And it’s not worth trying to fight it. All you can do is tiptoe out the backdoor while imagining the score from Psycho to be playing.

I had another friend who lied mostly out of insecurity. He told people he lived in Bel Air when he actually lived in Sherman Oaks (Oh, the private shame of living in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the Valley!) and when he took a leave of absence from the school we both attended in New York, he told everyone he was transferring to UCLA. These lies I understand more. I guess it’s more chic to say you live in Bel Air and it’s understandable that someone would feel embarrassment for taking a year off of school. But, still. Why? Why do you need to do it? Why do you need to lie to your closest friends—people who know the real story. I understand lying to an intimidating acquaintance but not your close friends. That’s different. That’s like a weird betrayal.

To be fair, I think compulsive lying is a symptom of a much larger problem, one that’s possibly a type of mental disorder. And to those who don’t feel the need to lie constantly, it comes off as bizarre behavior. It’s crazy how common it is though. I bet everyone who’s reading this knows someone like the two people I just described. Isn’t that sort of nuts? Interestingly, people who lie about bigger things than coffee and their address don’t offend me so much. I understand why someone would lie about cheating. I understand why someone would lie about doing drugs. That makes sense to me. There’s something substantial to cover up. But there seems to be no valid reason to lie about something like the price of a coffee drink other than to do it for the sake of lying, which is terrifying.

Thankfully, I’ve since cut out those liars from my life and if one of my friends starts feeding me BS, I’m quick to call them out on it. Because we all lie a little bit but that doesn’t mean we should always get away with it.

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My brain after I’ve had a cup of coffee

Emailing: OMG, I LOVE to answer emails. GIVE ME MORE. Ugh, I can’t get enough. I also love the sound of my fingers hitting the keys on my laptop. It sounds like I’m stomping on a bug. God, bugs are gross. I love to kill them. Is that bad? OMG, someone just sent me another email. Answered prayers!

When my mom calls: I’m so excited! My mom is calling me! I’m not going to ignore it this time. No sirrie. I want to talk to her because I love her so much. I really do. I was in that woman’s vagina for nine freaking months (FIRST AND LAST, BY THE WAY) so the least I could do is pick up her phone call!

Hopes for the day: I’m going to conquer the world! I’m going to cure world hunger! I’m going to call my old friend from middle school to say what’s up. I’m going to have the best poop of my life in about five seconds!

Feelings about personal attractiveness: I look and feel cracked out but I. DON’T. CARE.

My brain before I’ve had a cup of coffee

Emailing: Wait, can these stop? Seriously. Just stop. I can’t answer of all these.

When my mom calls: Dear God. I can’t run THAT marathon today. She’s going to ask me all of these questions that I don’t have the answers to and I’m just going to feel overwhelmed. I can’t. Please phone. Stop ringing. Every time you do, I feel just a little bit more like a churlish child.

Hopes for the day: I just hope I don’t die. Or fall asleep at work. Maybe if I’m feeling super ambitious, I’ll make it to the deli for some candy.

Feelings about personal attractiveness: CAN YOU BELIEVE PEOPLE HAVE SEX WITH ME SOMETIMES?

So I hate coffee. It makes me feel nauseous and need to poop and my breath stinks and sometimes I start twitching. New York City runs on uppers though so I needed to just bite the bullet and start my day with a cup of crack like everyone else. You know what’s super embarrassing though? Since I seriously despise the taste of it, I need to get coffee drinks that are loaded with chocolate and milk, which is obviously mortifying. Whenever I’m with a real coffee drinker, I have to whisper to the barista my order of an iced mocha or latte (with skim obvs) because I’m just so ashamed. Meanwhile, they wolf down their pure espresso drink like it’s a bag of beautiful dicks. I don’t get it. How does one actually enjoy the taste of it? And you know what’s even more mind-boggling? People who switch to decaf. WTF? Why? If you aren’t getting the crack then what’s the point? Drink a glass of water for god sakes!

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For years, I refused to drink coffee. It seemed like too intense a stimulant for me. Even on my most sluggish mornings, I stuck to the soft stuff. Chai. Hot chocolate. Coca Cola. Usually those did the trick. The sugar and mild caffeine buzz gave me enough of a jolt to power through the workday. I worried that if I ever transitioned into actual coffee, dark and bitter and ground from beans, there would be no turning back. I feared that once I took the plunge, I would plummet blindly into the bottomless abyss of a stainless steel travel mug, never to surface again. I actually had concerns about moving from the morning cup of joe to blowing lines of cocaine just to get up in the morning.

Of course that was a crazy phobia. Also, of course, it came half true.

Mocha was my gateway drug. As much as my maniac fear of addiction kept me off of coffee, so too did my sweet tooth. In the same way that I rarely drink because I don’t like how beer tastes, I barely ever dabbled in espresso because I didn’t like the way it hit my tongue. Mocha changed that. Last spring, I began working more nights in addition to my day job teaching preschool in the mornings. I was a lot of tired a lot of the time. One day I woke up convinced that my normal hot chocolate would not get the job done. I needed something stronger, so I opted for the iced mocha, which at Dunkin Donuts is an iced coffee with a thick glob of chocolate syrup. I was hooked within sips.

Soon I was downing a cup of coffee daily. Even if I made it through the morning without powering up, I’d have to gulp one down to keep myself awake past dark. But it gets worse. When my girlfriend, a longtime black coffee drinker, accompanied me for my daily fix, I became immediately self-conscious. It just wasn’t cool to drink what was basically the equivalent of chocolate milk laced with Ritalin. I started ordering regular iced coffee. Skim milk. One sugar. A little more respectable. A little less diluted.

Recently, though, I crossed a line I’d determined not to. I doubled up. One coffee in the morning and a second in the afternoon. I had a long day of travel, I reasoned, and I got up early. But those were just excuses. You know, like: “Of course it’s okay for me to be high. It’s a party. My nephew’s fourth birthday party.” Or: “I drive better with a couple of drinks in me and a stripper on my lap!” It was a rationalization, not a reason.

At this point, where do I stop? Two cups a day? Three? Do I get a mug and keep it on my desk, refilling it every hour or so as I empty it over and over and over again? Intravenous drip? One Pulp Fiction needle to the heart every morning? Where does it end? Would I be able to stop?

I don’t mean to belittle people who suffer from the very real disease of addiction. I don’t consider myself a legitimate addict. My real concern is that I have that potential inside me, the tendency to indulge compulsive or dangerous behavior once I start. Relying on any chemical on a regular basis makes me anxious. If I have a headache, I try to wait it out until I absolutely have to choke down a couple of Advil. As soon as I find myself wanting to dance or call a girl “Fancy Hair,” I cut off my booze intake. That’s not usual. It’s phobic. But it follows that when I drink coffee, I’m very conscious of the frequency and volume of my intake. In fact, on days when I wake up feeling fresh and chipper, I try to drink juice instead. Certainly this is far from actual addiction, but it’s enough to make me nervous. I’m probably not on the cusp of any real danger, but how can I be sure? Even the idea of it makes me confused and afraid.

All I’m certain of is if you ever hear me utter the phrase: “I’m not even a human being until I have my first cup of coffee,” please slap me in the face and make me apologize at gun point while sobbing because I have hit rock bottom.

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You know us. We’re here on the walk to your morning’s single-transfer commute to a creative career job in Manhattan, probably Midtown, potentially Chelsea, rarely SoHo, never Wall Street. We remember you and your usual drink and can anticipate that you switch from hot to iced coffee somewhere in early-to-mid June. We look you in your tired eyes, bleary from catching up on Battlestar Galactica, Breaking Bad, Bolaño, whatever, too late into the night, and we ask you—because you’re usually such a staunch small-coffee consumer—”a large today?” You see, we’ve noticed. Or we have your order ready on the counter by the time the line snakes you into first position. We have staved off an incursionist front of urban anonymity. You’re flattered that we remembered. You’re very impressed.

You shouldn’t be. We probably went to your alma mater. In select cases, we might even keep this fact to ourselves so that you won’t feel bashful when required to discuss professors with the person who’s buttering your scooped-out sesame bagel. In our minds, we’re saying “I tried to hang my diploma in the fridge back here, but it didn’t leave enough room for the soy milk and chai mix.”

Things do get real rather fast. Admit too much about what we’re “doing in New York when not at this place” and the mindset required to maintain the java-centric jig is up. Make a peep about a piece almost published, and every regular from the neighborhood will mention a magazine editing local who “might be a good person for you to talk to sometime.” Sure, so you’re saying you’d be happy to make that introduction. When will that be, exactly? We’ve got our calendars ready in our lockers downstairs. Any time is fine for us.

You’re tired, but we’ve been up since five and probably before because we have to commute into this neighborhood we obviously can’t afford, and we assuredly have another job. You’re tired, but when you order by saying “I need a…” we want to put our fingers into the grinder’s teeth. When you ask “Can I just get…?” and then rat-tat-tat a round of demands, you have violated the meaning of the word “just” in both, or possibly all, senses. You’re tired because you were up late tipping bartenders a buck per drink or more, possibly doing so at this very same establishment that’s now doubling as your cafe, and you need a pick-me-up before you can begin banging out that promo copy for the client whose halitosic breath on your neck gives you the heebie-jeebie hangover heaves.

We get it. Our empathy interprets your leaden eyelids: you are spent. New York’s so expensive and coffee’s so extravagant these days! Three dollars, 4 dollars, 5 dollars for a drink? It’s mostly just milk and water, for heaven’s sake! America’s gone off the deep-end, caffeine-wise. Your endless lament: Starbucks, free trade, Europeans drink only one espresso each. Remember cart-coffee for a dollar and that burnt-from-the-bodega business?

Oh, brother, you just ordered a Grande by accident, and I forgive. I am a beneficent barista. I will smile and make you feel like the belle of the coffee bar and hit this weighty portafilter handle against the garbage can at such a precise velocity that it will rubber-bounce into my other, waiting palm, emptied and ready to be wiped then dosed. I will steam this milk to perfection and pull this shot within a millisecond of its fractious and mercurial life: you will taste the motherloving gospel in all three layers of its tan flavorbolt without even knowing they exist as separate entities. I will bang the steamer on the wooden counter to do things to that aeration you couldn’t possibly understand without at least a rudimentary background in crema and microfoam theory. I will make this mammary expulsion at its exacted temperature do a ghostly blooming dance in a ceramic cup and curl it into a leaf in your cappuccino, or a rosetta in your latte, and although you will not know what the latter is called, you will say that it’s beautiful because it is. I will barb back that it captures a movement, ever enshrined in shift, as an early Monet, and you will say, “Only in Brooklyn” with strange pride, and I will bite my tongue until the bitter buds in the back are all that are left.

And you will leave your change. Maybe. Maybe it will be fifty cents. It will depend on the pricing set by an owner who only perhaps understands that this is how this works, that cafes don’t have a tip jar but rather a change repository. If you’ve served or serviced before, in college or otherwise, you will recognize what it’s like to be good, even great, at any hand-skill-based job, and you may leave a full dollar. But most customers will demurely, innocently, innocuously tip the nickel or dime they get back for a drink costing $2.15, $2.95, $4.45, $(x-.1), $(y-.05); they’ll let gravity slide the coin into the glass jar off of the wallet-bound bills we’ve just gently counted into their hand. Or, equally likely, they won’t. Either way, it represents maybe .0001% of our monthly rent, so if you’re all set then sugar is do-it-yourself over in that corner. It’s been our pleasure, cheers. No, really: you’re great and all, but there’s someone waiting behind you. We’re locked in; the shift is long, as is the line. It is steamy and smallish behind the bar, and we have, really quite literally, nowhere else to turn.

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Why are you enthusiastic about working at Ampersand Espresso?

Well sir, first of all, I truly love the decor. I could live here for weeks, and I might actually need to, because our apartment is having a bit of a bedbug epidemic. But really – I love these faux velvet diner booths. My Grandma Ruth once had a dress with this exact same print on it. I loved her dearly until she died of gluten allergies, bless her soul. Thankfully, Ampersand Espresso has gluten-free banana muffins, which were Grandma Ruth’s favorite! I am enthusiastic about working at Ampersand, not only because of my passion for gluten-free baked goods, but because it will give me the financial security I need to finish my animated documentary about unicycle racing in the neuroscience community.

What makes you stand apart from the other candidates?

My master’s degree in comparative literature has taught me that the human soul is infinite, but not as infinite as the human desire for frothy espresso drinks. My quick, analytic mind can often anticipate what a customer is about to order before they even order it and my expansive knowledge of global folklore provides me with ample topics for witty banter to brighten customers’ days and distract them in case we run out of half and half.

Opening shifts begin at 6am and closing shifts can expect to stay as late as midnight. Could you be outgoing and friendly with customers both early in the morning and late at night?

As a psychiatrically diagnosed “night person,” I would prefer later shifts. Closing up at midnight will be no problem at all because, as I like to say, the night doesn’t even begin until 1am. This might suggest that I am ill-equipped for opening up shop at 6, but don’t be fooled. I have woken up that early to get to the airport on at least four separate occasions, and I have never missed a flight! As for my early morning demeanor, this one time freshman year, I woke up at 5:30am in an abandoned lot on the outskirts of town covered in glitter and silly string and was amiable enough to negotiate a ride home from a gas station attendant and outgoing enough to talk my way back into my dorm even though I had left my purse with my keys and identification on a carnival ride. This was an isolated incident but I assure you that even if a similar situation were to arise, I would be able to get to work on time, looking neat and bright-eyed, and will be functional, attentive, and respectful, especially if I am granted unlimited access to the espresso machine.

Describe a time when you gave or received great customer service?

During my brief stint at Pier 1, a woman came in with her three children and demanded pomegranate-scented candles. I politely explained to her that we were out, and referred her to the 73 other types of candles we had available. Unsatisfied, the customer brandished her coupon book and vocalized that if I don’t get her the pomegranate-scented candles promised on our website, she would call my manager and see to it that I was immediately laid off. As she explained this, her children improvised a game of tackle football in the artisan pottery aisle that I had so carefully arranged just moments earlier. I enlisted a co-worker to attend to the woman while I ran to the adjacent Whole Foods, purchased a ripe pomegranate, crushed it with my bare hands, and used the extract to disguise an otherwise unscented candle. Simultaneously, I restrained the children with our brand-new Splendid Relaxation Mist, as patented by local catnip manufacturers, thereby saving both the pottery and the well-being of our other customers. Needless to say, the angry woman bought both the candles and the mist and even gave me a recommendation for a promotion because I am always willing to go the extra mile to ensure a customer’s satisfaction, even if that mile is fraught with swampland and man-eating crocodiles.

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The coffee machine is no drip filter. It is sleek and black. It has curves like a European sports car. The choices of brew are a tribute to democratic choice. Hot or cold, steamed or black, tea or coffee—the machine mixes and matches these possibilities to suit each individual’s point of view. Espresso with hot chocolate froth? No problem. Steamed milk au natural? With pleasure.

But alas the coffee machine’s magic is slow and deliberate. Awaiting its bounty one must adhere to decorum. Always apologize to the person behind you for the lengthiness of coffee-pouring. If the CEO or other upper-management stands hip out, cup tilted, waiting to fill their mug, apologize more deferentially. Ceremonially offer to step aside. The CEO always declines; he’s a coffee-machine egalitarian.

On a recent morning, just after the creamy topping had twirled forth but before the espresso shot had begun to trickle through the spout, my boss arrived behind me, metallic travel mug in hand. He wore a black turtleneck and black pants, as he did every day. His physical presence is characterized by circles—bald, round head; half-moon belly; black-rimmed oval glasses perched in perfect creases under his eyes. The consistency of spheres is broken only by a rectangular sole patch under his bottom lip. It is the thickest collection of hair visible, and it is all right angles.

My boss once found me tolerable and competent—hireable—and I would like to continue my employment. Additionally, I seek authority figures’ approval (see apologies to CEO). So standing next to my boss at the sanctified coffee machine was an opportunity to solidify our relationship. To chit chat brightly and subtly endear myself to my boss before the consultants came in. Yet historically, our talks tend to jolt and hiccup, like a motorcycle that refuses to kick into gear. But, here we were, stuck within the office kitchen’s narrow confines, beholden to the coffee machine’s whims and excesses. We had no choice but to make conversation. He made the first move.

“Ah, the coffee maker…”

Everyone has something like this to say about the machine. It always seems like a robust conversation piece, but one quickly learns the coffee machine’s romance cannot be adequately verbalized.

“Yup,” I said, in a lively way. A meaningful “yup.” A “yup” suggesting an ironically-inclined but wholly committed employee. A “yup” that masked the barren verbal field I visualized in front of me.

The brewer spit out the last of the espresso. I smiled. Beverage preparation was finished. I could walk away from Sole Patch Boss and my lack of witty retort would be seen as an accident of the coffee machine’s unpredictable timeline.

I placed my hands around the mug’s warm exterior ready to pull away. Suddenly, the cogs of the coffee machine whirred back into motion. I jolted and dropped my hands. Of course. The cappuccino air kiss. The machine still had to puff up my drink to the very tip of the cup.

Just before debilitating silence engulfed Boss and me, I was moved by the frothy

proceedings. “Ooh, the final flourish,” I said.

He laughed. I smiled. Perfect.

While he set up his own brew strategy and I sweetened my coffee alongside, we chatted, yes chatted, about technology these days: the coffee maker’s habit of politely spelling out, ‘Thank you,’ on the screen, your cue to remove your mug from the machine’s belly and go on your way.

“I don’t like when machines talk to you,” my boss confessed to me in what I presumed was a conspiratorial admission.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure I understood his point. I am a believer in societal politesse; technology should be no exception. Worried that disputing his point might be an admission of a subconscious right wing agenda (You know who else loves when technology talks? Republicans.), I subverted my ambivalence and laughed.

He went on. A futuristic scenario unfolded. “Machines talk like people and then pretty soon you have technofiles—people who start talking like machines. Oh, God.”

Ooh, technofile. Although I was pretty sure adolescent boys had talked like machines since the original Star Wars, I was impressed with his linguistic improvisation: ‘technophile.’

It was my move. I scrolled through the possible comebacks:

“Yeah.”

“So true.”

“OMG!”

But I’d already missed the beat. He looked at me, awaiting my volley. I smiled.

“Yup.”

Eyes glued to the linoleum kitchen floor, company-issued coffee cup in hand, I bowed

out gracefully and returned to my desk.

The next morning, I resumed my position by the coffee maker, replaying yesterday’s unfulfilled exchange in my head. “Soon technofiles will be talking like machines…” There was something available in that conversational nugget that I’d missed. Machines… people… people… machines. It’s like anthro-po-mor-phism but… backwards. It’s…reverse anthropomorphism! I looked around delighted. I had it. It was brilliant.

I lingered a bit, wondering if he would return. Could we pick up where we left off? He would have to arrive before ‘Thank you’ vanished from the screen. It appeared and was gone. Dejected, I returned to my desk. I did a fleeting search for ‘anthropomorphism’ on dictionary.com. Then, to be double sure, looked up ‘reverse.’ I considered sending him an email: “Re: reverse anthropomorphism?”

The next morning, alone by the brewer, I went through the quiet ritual of preparation. I finished and held the warmed mug in my hand an extra second, enjoying the heat on my fingers. I looked at the machine’s kind message once again; it’s lack of intimidating facial hair or conversational acumen. I nodded my head in defeat and admiration and said finally, “No, no. Thank YOU.”

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As a pseudo-barista at the fast food equivalent of a café, I’m well acquainted with failure. I contribute to society only as a pair of minimum-wage hands, and my customers never let me forget there are drinks on the menu more valuable than an hour of my labor—in market terms, a single gulp of espresso is equal to fifteen minutes of my dumb ass lifting and unloading crates of Iced Lemon Pound Cakes. So know that I don’t presume to pass judgment from some intellectual or ethical high ground.

I am but a humble failure, looking out across the counter and seeing in you, the parent, a reflection of myself: that dull, idiot reflection that can’t seem to realize how horrifically it’s fucking up. I’ve tried to ignore it. God knows I’ve tried. I ignore so many of the horrible things I see here. The middle-aged man removing his ring as he waits for his mistress. The puddles of bulimia and the discarded pregnancy tests. The insistence that we “just smile and nod” when the customers refer to the black barista as “boy.” The man who, angry he could not cut in line, whipped out his dick and pissed on the floor just to watch me clean it up.

In a world with painkillers and Jameson and a wonderful, beautiful partner, I can come close to forgetting these things. But you’re so consistent and flagrant that I just can’t ignore it anymore. It breaks my heart to see you failing this way. Failing your children! And I would mop the piss of every bulimic philandering bigot forever if you would only realize:

Your child does not need a latte.

That’s all. I’m not asking you to give up meat or care about Darfur. All I’m asking—all we’re asking, the people who will one day share a workplace and a world with the living sum of your parental decisions—is that you stop feeding your children fancy coffee drinks. As proud as you might be of your eight-year-old daughter totally nailing your order of two (triple / grande / three-pump white mocha / two-pump toffee nut / non-fat / no foam / extra whip / extra drizzle) mochas, it doesn’t change the fact that what you’re giving your child is an energy bomb dumped in an obesity drink. Please reconsider.

Please remember this an hour from now, when the store has to watch you yell at your daughter to sit still, to focus on her homework, to stay in her seat. Please give it some thought while you drag her by the wrist to the back seat of your SUV. Please don’t forget it at the parent-teacher conference, when you find out your daughter is having trouble focusing, or at the therapist’s office, when you discover that the way she often fidgets with hands or feet or squirms in seat / often leaves seat in situations in which remaining seated is expected / often has difficulty playing or engaging in leisure activities quietly / often is “on the go” or often acts as if “driven by a motor,” / often talks excessively means she meets the DSM-IV bullet points for hyperactivity and might warrant consideration for ADHD medication. After you flatten the affect of your beautiful, wonderful child, please remember:

Your child does not need a latte.

How many sodas did your mom let you drink in a day when you were a kid? One? Two? Three?! Three is too many and makes me think you had a fat mom. A single Coke has 35mg of caffeine, and remember how buzzed you felt after a couple of those? Right? Like you could kick off your Jordans and your Starter jacket and just moonwalk right across your stupid teacher’s desk?! That’s because children don’t have the same tolerance for caffeine that a latte-buying parent like yourself might. So can you imagine how your daughter feels when she downs a medium latte and the 150mg of caffeine it contains? We’re talking five bottles of soda. We’re talking more than twice the federally recommended 62.5mg daily limit on caffeine intake for 7 to 9-year-old children. In a single drink. That your child hasn’t started shooting lightning from her over-caffeinated fingers like the emperor from Star Wars is a small miracle.

And don’t think that because a Frappucino resembles a milkshake with its whipped cream and chocolate drizzle that it’s somehow an innocent alternative. I realize your daughter looks adorable scooping spoonfuls of whipped cream from her Java Chip Frappucino—nobody’s arguing that—but she’s drinking twice the recommended daily sugar intake for a normal-sized human and over 100mg of caffeine. Has parenting become so stress-free and routine that you’re looking to ramp up the difficulty? Is your daughter on the way to visitation with your ex? Is this a vengeance-Frappucino? Because how do you not realize that:

Your child does not need coffee in any form.

Maybe it’s nothing malevolent. You’re at the coffee place on the way to school and work and it’s early and you want to get something for your kid because it makes her happy, and you love it when she’s happy, and you love it when she hugs your leg with those tiny grateful arms and says thank you! because it makes you die a little in the very best way. Maybe that’s it. And I get it, I really do. I’ve done any number of shameful things for the affections of a cute somebody. But this is hurting your child. This is making her die a little in the very worst way, and the smiles you buy here won’t help with her insulin resistance, or remove the extra weight, or erase the memories of all that yelling. How happy will she be when she enters middle school overweight and addicted to Adderall? Please don’t start your child down a road that leads to young adult novels and the comments section of internet magazines. For all our sakes.

Try something different for a while. You’ll be a few bucks richer, your kid will be less of a handful, her teachers will hate themselves a bit less, the grass will be greener and the sky bluer and the sun warmer and, I dunno, that’s just how it feels for me, the loser psuedo-barista, every time a parent brings a box of apple juice and a banana to the register. So do that.

Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a hobo showering in the men’s room and I need to make sure he hasn’t stolen any Mumford and Sons CDs.

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You’re annoying. You walk aimlessly around the left bank, Paris Practique in one hand, Eagle Creek passport protector in the other, searching for Café de Flore and inevitably shouting commands like “English” and “garsan siveuplay” when (if) you find it. Stop being you. You’re going to hate Paris. It already hates you. God, don’t tell me you’re more than a tourist; you’re studying abroad? Well, stop that too. No one likes you! No one wants to know you, so stay in the 5^th and shush!

You live in an arrondissement that strangely impresses even the chicest Parisian; you live in the Marais. It’s gay, Jewish, kind of like Soho ten years ago, but with more falafel and less Marc Jacobs. You live within a two-block radius of Galliano epicenter La Perle and next to some landmark like Musée Picasso. You’ve learned to mention this landmark when explaining where you live to a Parisian because they know where that is and they l-o-v-e knowing. Secret: Even Parisians need validation. Trust me, if you’re American and living anywhere else, you won’t be taken seriously. And don’t you dare bring the left bank into this..

You love wine now! You hate (and truly miss) cocktails. You might have ordered a Bloody Mary once out of hangover habit but you would have been better off pulling that weird séance shit in the bathroom over this concoction. Who wants to dress their own cocktail? You’ve probably been spoiled by the American Bar (don’t worry it’s English) at the Savoy, so stop being a brat and go with the safest, and often cheapest bet–wine! You can even compromise and get wine cocktails like Kir which is basically like a Shirley Temple except not for a five year old/maybe for a five year old. Update: You’re sick of wine now.

Pastries are precious! You have your favorite boulangerie, which is duh, Du Pain et Des Idées. Where else can you get an escargot that you’ll actually enjoy?  They’re also the only restaurants you’ll be frequenting because unless you’re spending 50 euro a day you have to seek out good food. There’s no mid range here babies, no decent café will ever satiate your La Scala craving and you need to be ok with that. In fact, embrace that shit. Truth: You’re really not eating because all your money goes to important things like rent and Isabel Marant.

Surprise! You’re skinny! I mean, you have to be. French girls are definitely prettier and most likely skinnier than you, so trot up your six flights of stairs because that ass is a dead fat American giveaway. You know that fat doesn’t exist here. Don’t think because their diet is based around bread and cheese that it’s actually a part of their diet.

At this point you live, breathe, eat, talk (but never walk), coffee. “It’s a substantial meal!” Unless you’re at La Caféothèque though, it’s terrible. It’s ok because nothing is worse than paying eight euro for a coke “light.”

You don’t know any Americans. You don’t know anyone in college because it’s called university. You certainly do not know any expats. You’re probably friends with Swedish people. They speak better English than you and give study abroad students (who are rarely seen in the Marais, big plus!) the impression that you’re unapproachable. They’re usually beautiful, but be careful; use your newly acquired French glare sparingly as they’ll assume you’re Parisian (huge compliment!) and you’ll mistake their beauty for apathy. You’ve learned to shake off the occasional study abroad gnat/foreign friend by proxy by uttering a “non” so flawlessly they forget you’re a US national. You just hate Americans.  Where’s McDonalds (Macdo en français) though?

You have Parisian friends that we’re so hard to befriend. You spent so long waiting for an invitation to their parent’s flat int he 16^th. Omg! There’s the Eiffel tower! You forget about it sometimes until you make it up to Buttes-Chaumont, or if on the hunt for cheap ravioli (translation: dumpling), Parc de Belleville. Expect a weekend trip out of your French friends too because they all have chateaus and shit in Normandy.

You spend the rest of your weekends searching for the best after hours spot. You might end up in the 11^th, which is like, an ethnic east village or worse, Le Baron, for a passé night of partying, but the truth is, you never really have to leave the Marais.

You shop exclusively at Merci. Colette is so done. Just kidding, you go there all the time; water bar! You learned to love APC again, you’re still obsessed with Surface to Air but you just can’t accept French Trotters as the replacement to Opening Ceremony (they ship here anyway).

Do you know chic? You love it. You used to be jealous of the pretty Parisian girls but now you’re over them.  Plus they’re just as jealous that you grew up in LA! Since you’re from southern California (it’s ok, you’re not really American) you’re always searching for Mexican food. It doesn’t exist. They don’t get that a good tortilla is just as important as a good baguette.

You forget about food when you get on your off-the-beaten-path tip. You even wake up early on Sunday, scope the Richard Lenoir market (for food), and figure out if it’s the first Sunday of the month. It is! Time to hit the private museums like Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature. You love privacy now. You’ve learned to be private in the metro, Le Progrès, and just about every ‘chez’ based restaurant in the city.

You have a love/hate with Parisians.

Don’t worry; you’ll learn to assess their favorite response, “cela est impossible” at face value. You’ll get this at Mama Shelter, Disneyland (caught!), and every pizza delivery service (caught!) in Paris. Plus, you can always walk into a French pharmacy (Goop!) and get liquid Oxycodone, so it’s going to be ok! Don’t drink it on the walk home though.

You can’t find real drugs! Wait, you can! Update: they suck.

Oh but you really love your little Paris! Even sans drugs because you finally made it your own! You even love your tabac. You’re there all the time.

You’ve finally accepted that Paris lacks a certain edge. It’s pretty conservative for Europe and that’s acceptable. You didn’t come here for the scene. This isn’t Krakow.  It’s all about quality of life and trust me, it’s in the simple pleasures. We miss that in the states sometimes; we’re all about disconnect over details. Hey! Stop feeling like the American in Paris and start feeling like you, loving you in Paris.

Always remember that Paris might feel a tad inaccessible. Understand that she’s a cold fucking beautiful bitch. Approach her from a distance and always with care-not caution; she might have a delicate temperament but she loves to get wild on your ass, so learn to let her seduce you. Even if your communication skills are nill, your approach makes all the difference. From one (native?) American to another, elegance is learned, my friend.

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Iced skinny caramel macchiato. Venti.

I’m writing this as chills are being sent up my spine, the empty Starbucks cup next to me. I grab the cup and slurp up the last few brown drops hidden beneath tiny ice cubes. Soon I’ll take off the top and throw it back like I’m a freshman at a frat party, trying to get drunk off of the legal drug that supposedly can make some people hear voices.

I never drank coffee before I worked for the federal government. I had the occasional tea, but prided myself on never having drank a cup of the brown stuff in my life. Boy, how things change. On my way to the metro, a Starbucks was on my route, its mermaid creature singing sweetly for me to come in and drink its nectar. That bitch.

Finally, I caved.

What emerged was an addiction. I started off with a grande caramel macchiato, which for a few days, made me feel like I had mainlined an Adderall 25 XR circa 2007. It was the high with no blue snot. I didn’t have to clean up blue dust that stained my porous desk. I didn’t have to sketchily find a credit card and chop up a pill that I’d bought from some dude at the local DKE frat, which could have been a fucking aspirin for all I knew.

Then, it stopped working. I’d have a grande, and I still felt tired. So I had no choice but to up my tolerance to the ultimate in Starbucks size: venti.

No longer do I feel like I’m just high on Adderall. Now I’m just straight up high. I’m at a dubstep show on stage with Rusko as he turns out some sick shit and I’m dancing like the Wobble girl. Mary Kate’s texting me about a gnarly afterparty, and Kreayshawn is driving. I haven’t eaten in three days and I’m SUPER skinny, and my hip bones are protruding and I’m a sample size small. Opening Ceremony is trying to get me to design a line of clothes for them and Chloë Sevigny says I’m her style icon. Stephen Dorff wants to know if I want to go to Hawaii for the weekend. I tell him “sorry, Stephen, but I’ll be binge (coffee) drinking with Britney.” There will be no faux suicide attempts this weekend. I’m making ‘fetch’ happen, and I’m replacing Ryan Seacrest as the host of American Idol; I’m also a contestant and I’m the winner.

I’m writing this, dreading that soon the buzz will wear off. In January, Starbucks cockteased me by saying they were coming out with the trenta—916 mL of fantasy-inducing goodness. They told me it was coming out May 3. Yet, it’s June, and still no trenta. No coffee cup that’s bigger than the human stomach. No coffee that can force me to literally not eat all day. No coffee cup that can hold a bottle of wine.

Sure, some of you are calling bullshit. “I drink coffee all the time and I’m fine!” “Your tolerance is really low!” “Caffeine isn’t a drug!” Fuck you. Coffee is my Four Loco without the hangover that makes me want to torture myself like a fucking Saw character. Starbucks is my supplier, located conveniently on the corner near the metro with the dog shit on the sidewalk. The Hispanic man who makes my coffee smiles as he hands my drug across the counter, like he’s saying “enjoy your morning, bitch! Thanks for buying enough of this shit to pay my weekly salary!”

Coffee makes the bitch at my office tolerable. I can slap on a fake smile and pretend she’s not a horrible human being, and I can listen to Nicki Minaj without feeling like a sellout. I can crank out bullshit assignments at 8 a.m. Coffee makes me feel like fucking Grace Jones as I walk down the office hallway. I might work for the government, but I’m the biggest legal drug buyer since ugly hippies discovered salvia (RIP).

If you don’t drink coffee, you’re stupid. Get on my level.

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