Black. Like my soul.

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I am not into abstract art.

I also harbour a fair amount of resentment for people who become increasingly verbose and supercilious (especially once you miss that critical juncture when you could have interrupted them but erred on the side of manners) about their pour over methodology. I smile meekly. But on the inside I’m imagining slamming their head into the counter top and then tearing the water-cooler bottle from its housing and dropping it on them (with extreme prejudice)

Not that I object to the manner in which you prepare your java… I just object to being told about it in excruciating detail…  that, and you wholeheartedly believe your ceremonial fetishism makes you interesting. No I don’t want to watch your Youtube video about your morning ritual….

Seriously. I would rather stab myself with a rusty nail and risk tetanus then partake in your life affirming nonsense. Run off to the gym and take some selfies and leave me to brood with my Arabica.

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