I make coffee that tastes of boots and brick, and no matter how I change the measurements, some days using less ground and more water or less water and more ground or more or less of both it turns out the same. No matter if it’s already ground from the grocery or instant or whole beans from the most remote country sold at the most unique coffee shop in Seattle I’m grinding myself with a very expensive grinder that’s hardly used, it comes out tasting like boots. With that, I’ve taken a liking towards tea (not loose) and weaned away from so-called caffeine addiction. Now there are people who claim that they cannot live without coffee, that they are so addicted that they waive their responsibility to be polite and civilized before having their first cup—those people, who are willing to drink my coffee that tastes like it’s brewed in the desert mid-day, beneath a scorching red-flamed sky, next to a cactus, in a goddamned sweaty, creased and faded leather boot, are those that need to embrace the convenience of a tea kettle.


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