I don’t “drink coffee.”

I experience origin stories.

You see, most people think coffee is just… a beverage. A tool. A caffeine delivery system. A brown emergency.

I find that reductive.

Coffee is an agricultural narrative.

These are not “beans.” They are seeds—hand-harvested at altitude, kissed by volcanic soil, slow-dried under ethically ambiguous sunshine. When I sip, I’m not tasting bitterness. I’m tasting elevation. I’m tasting notes of stone fruit, regret, and generational resilience.

And yes, it’s $5.75.

Because excellence has overhead.

You’re paying for terroir. For nuance. For a barista named Elijah who has opinions about grind size and emotional boundaries. For the subtle citrus finish that you, tragically, keep describing as “kinda strong.”

Kinda strong?

This is a washed Ethiopian with floral aromatics and a luminous acidity. It does not aspire to be “kinda strong.” It aspires to transcendence.

Do I correct people when they say they just need “coffee to function”?

Of course.

Coffee is not a crutch. It is a companion. A ritual. A daily reminder that hot water and a wet bean can achieve greatness if properly pressured.

You think it’s overpriced.

But let’s be honest—this humble, self-actualized bean wakes you up, fuels your ambition, tolerates your Monday, and never once asks about your five-year plan.

Confidence? Yes. Coffee is confident.

It is, objectively, a wet bean.
And yet it stands there in a minimalist paper cup like,

“I am $5.75. You will wait in line for me. You will Instagram me. You will whisper my name incorrectly. And tomorrow… you will return.”

And you will.

Because deep down, you respect it.

Because it believed in itself first.

And don’t get me started on instant coffee.

Instant coffee is a crime against bean-kind. It’s a betrayal of the terroir, a slap to the palate, a caffeinated apology that tastes like regret in a styrofoam cup. People say, “It’s fine, it’s just for energy.” Energy? That’s like saying a diamond is just a shiny rock. It’s not just anything. It is potential—compressed, refined, and demanding reverence.

Every morning, I cradle my cup like it’s the first sunrise. I inhale deeply and think, yes, this is my life now. Others may take their coffee casually. I do not. I interrogate every note. I argue with the crema. I nod at the acidity. I raise an eyebrow at the roast profile.

And if you dare put sugar in it?

I… I don’t understand you. That’s not coffee. That’s dessert with an identity crisis. Coffee deserves respect. Coffee demands honesty. Coffee expects excellence.

So yes, I pay $5.75. And I do it willingly, proudly, smugly. Because coffee is confident. And I—like all true believers—must rise to its standard.

Because at the end of the day, when the steam curls off that cup, when the aroma hits the room like it owns the place, I understand: this is not just a wet bean.

This is a declaration.

And I am listening.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.