No cream, no sugar.

[Certain]

There's a moment when the barista calls my order (a large coffee — no cream, no sugar) that gives me this pleasurable sense of superiority over my fellow man. In that instant, as that midlife crisis asshat unsheathes a straw for his caramel-hazelnut frappuccino with a chocolate drizzle over the whipped cream topping, I think to myself, "What a faggot."

The following moment is when I hate myself most. So the man enjoys a sweet treat on his way to work. He's probably making more than me. He probably goes home to a couple kids and a wife who, though past her prime, still smiles when she sees his minivan pull into the driveway. Maybe he has a sense of purpose. Maybe I could be more like that guy if I drank a caramel-hazelnut frappuccino with a chocolate drizzle over the whipped cream topping and retreated to my dad-mobile with a Steely Dan album cranked to level 8 out of 20.

Maybe I could quit with the self-loathing and Joy Division knockoffs for a second. Am I better for listening to Echo & the Bunnymen? Can you impress someone when you're too aloof even to talk to them? The bags under my eyes suggest that coffee is more for getting energy than because I enjoy the bitterness. But don't I? What am I even going to expend that 365 milligrams of caffeine on, anyway? Another day of listlessly writing for no one in particular and trying to make it through a career that seems short on cash and long on insecurity.

Besides, it's an iced coffee.