On Saturdays, I am forced to leave my house and arrive at my part-time waitress job at the unholy hour of 10 a.m. The restaurant where I work used to have decent coffee, but the owners are cheap and terrible people, and they have replaced the good coffee with this brown colored liquid bladder packet thing that comes out of a vending machine like you’d find in a hospital waiting room or a parking lot. Needless to say, it is undrinkable.

So, every Saturday morning, I drag my sorry ass out of bed and stop by my local Crazy Mocha where I purchase a medium black coffee for the low, low price of $27.50. It’s actually $3 with tip because I can’t not tip, I go there every week, and I’m also a waitress.

Anyway, there I was squinting in the morning sunlight, waiting on line behind an en...

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