Caffeine, whataboutism and the search for truth

Coffee isn’t doing the trick anymore. The black hole of caffeine (let’s call it a C-Hole) has become a burnt-out planetary system in the far reaches of my galaxy. I mean I drink it diligently, but it’s not producing the desired effects.

Yesterday I took white vinegar and ran it through my coffeemaker. There’s something pleasurable about watching the sludge and scale come pouring out and into the carafe. Methodically I ran eight pots of water through its system, and when all seemed clear, I washed the carafe and basket to within an inch of their lives. I clean my Bunn coffeemaker every 90 days, so the bean water tastes fresh.

We all have crutches.

Many cultures drink chai for their fix, but unless there’s a yawning crevasse of bold, black liquid staring back at me in my cup, I can’t wake up for the day. I’d venture that if I lived in a culture that imbibed tea every morning or afternoon, I’d become accustomed to it.

Maybe the soothing varietals would become staples in my daily routine, and I’d seek out delicious teacups of every size and shape. As it stands now, I have an overabundance of coffee cups in my cupboard, which I clean out on a regular basis.

The only cups that continuously make the cut are as follows: a cup from my Aunt Fern’s garage sale, the CNN cup gifted to me by Selena, the beautiful handcrafted cup I bought in Bar Harbor, Maine and a random, oddly shaped hipster one I found at Save-N-Serve.

I am an eclectic connoisseur of cups to hold café au lait, and the ones I get rid of? In a basket safely ensconced upstairs — I said I got rid of them, which means I hide them only to discover their beauty later.

Rounding back to the why’s of how coffee isn’t cutting it these days: I have a solid knot in the back of my neck from current politics, whataboutism and the cold shoulder to truth. I’ve said, and always will, that it’s easy to ignore what doesn’t directly affect us. There’s a privilege in that if you want to look close enough.

I shouldn’t blame coffee because it never did anything wrong to me. It allowed me to sip it, making pot after pot to warm my belly and inject my brain with its rush. It heard me scratching in my notepad, jotting down the jagged poems of an unvarnished writer, my innermost feelings spreading onto the page. It sat stoic in a steaming cup as I finished my book. When I needed a jolt of it to allay the rage that built up from untruths being spoken where justice should reside, it was there. It provided caffeine like an IV drip into my veins.

Maybe I should run for office because parliamentary procedure has been embedded into my lexicon, my brain firing with the outline of images that used to remain on the old tube TVs when you turned them off at night.

Or maybe I should just put my head down and write what I know. Any coffee companies out there want to sponsor me, my writings, my Bunn coffeemaker and the constitutional knot in my neck? Accepting offers because you all should be thankful I’m not writing about whiskey.