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coffee-mug

I think i would rather give up meat than coffee.

I’m talking about tar black treacle thick actual coffee not the faded joke of instant. I’m sat here supping my brew out of the regulation mug (standard size, standard shape, white {at the very least inside, so’s you can view its density of colour}). This is a little ritual which brings me happiness in the muddled-headed, bleary-eyed, night-soiled morning. There is something about its dark adult flavour (i’m sure my coffee is rolled on the not-at-all-innocent-thighs-of-devil-worshipers-and-night-whisperers) that wakes me with a swift kick to my senses, a kick with nazi boot aimed directly at my morning plums. The taste burns my buds, erases my morning mouth, tip-exing afresh my palate ready anew for my sensory onslaught of consumtion.

Do you know what i think it actually is? Its that it tastes real. Really real, like policeman’s-uniform-blue cheese or acid green olives or clear-as-the-devils-conscience vodka. My cup of real in the morning. Give me coffee over meat, or for that matter, ice-cream, yes even the icy-dream.

This could just be the caffeine rush of an addict talking though.

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