After years of incessant whining and pleading, my dad finally caved in on my tenth birthday. If I would agree to finally shut up about it and not tell my mother, he’d let me start drinking coffee. Thrilled to have tiptoed inside the outer realm of adult pleasures, I poured myself a big cup of Folgers, took a sip, and instantly spit it into the kitchen sink.
The stuff was nasty. Nasty and bitter.
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