Maybe it’s all in my mind, but I feel that not drinking coffee might cause me to transform into an unkindly Hulk. Coffee is the serum that prevents me from going to school or work as a crotchety Mr. Hyde.
Anyone so old that they even consider themselves “old,” not merely middle-aged, will try to give you advice if you talk to them longer than three minutes. It’s what self-proclaimed sages relish to do: find a willing youngster to absorb their outdated philosophies like a sponge. Maybe, they rationalize, by imparting all knowledge to some hapless teenagers, they can live forever through their mentality. Fortunately, teenagers become bored easily, and instead of listening to advice, prefer to roll their eyes and sigh theatrically.
Beyond advice like “go fight in the war!” and “No, mullets will always be in style,” it may seem that no good advice flows from their ancient throats. One piece of advice, however, has transcended the generations. It speaks beyond the black hole that divides the ambitionless young from the remorseful-for-being-ambitionless-in-youth old, a single command that makes one shudder:
When I wake in the morning without coffee, I stumble through the day like a heroin addict jonesing for a fix. Without a cup of joe, I’m willing to pop nefarious caffeine pills offered by strangers in dark alleys. Willing to inject that delectable Wakey-wakey juice directly into the bloodstream.
Oh, the power of a good cup of coffee.
Even now as I write this, I drink coffee. If there’s any advice I can give any writers, it’s to drink coffee. When I grow wrinkly and my jowls droop down to my thighs, I will race after indignant youngsters in my wheelchair. So, I’ll scream obscenities at them until they stop to listen. And rather than tell them to “Get a life” or “Get a job” or “Pull those pants up, seriously” (I might also say that, but hopefully the next generation will evolve fashion away from the ankle pants era), I’ll say:
And though I don’t sit and smoke through several packs of cigarettes while sipping, I’m beginning to consider myself a coffee connoisseur. No, not one of those annoying ones that spit on your shoes after he finds out you drink Instant. Or the ones that drink only black coffee (which is totally fine), but then sigh when you put milk in yours. “Milk? Really, John? How absolutely plebian of you.”
Coffee and music, in fact, are the two outlets in which teenagers can pretend to have far superior tastes than adults. Naturally, if teenagers continue to insist on listening to Ke$ha and Justin Bieber, we’ll have to forgo that attitude.
No matter your opinion, coffee has helped some men become great, has helped make sleepwalkers into efficient worker bees. Coffee can bring zombies back from the dead. So my advice on writing: