And would really love the morning off.
Jesus, that’s hot.
After all this time, I still can’t get used to the temperature. But what’s that old saying? If you don’t like the weather around here, wait 20 minutes? That sounds about right.
The mornings are the worst. Steam rises, clinging to my ceramic skin, scalding the inside of my lip. Every day, I drown in a murky, bitter swamp of bean water, only to be abandoned in a puddle of lukewarm backwash.
Not like you care, you son of a bitch. Cupboard full of options — tacky souvenirs from your pathetic conventions, gag gifts from colleagues, a collection of espresso cups that you still have never used — and you keep coming back to me. World’s Best Son says I should be grateful to be seeing some action. I’m Sorry For What I Said Before I Had My Coffee thinks I’m being overdramatic. Poor bastards have NO idea what I’ve seen.
Like, when’s the last time you saw a dentist? Maybe think about scheduling a cleaning instead of going in for your third cup of the day at 9:20 in the morning. And would it kill you to shave every once in a while? You’re really giving up on yourself, huh? What do you even do nowadays?
It wasn’t always like this, you know. I remember sitting on your dresser as you’d put on a tie. Or, on the bathroom sink as you put a comb through your hair. That was the life! I’d have a quick morning dip before I’m bathed and set out in the sunlight near the sink to dry.
Now I spend my days drowning in your backwash, abandoned on a desk littered with crumbs, as you scroll through Phish videos on YouTube. Come on, man! Every song sounds the same, man!
I envy the cool, dark cupboard where Somebody Loves You From Vermont bides their time. I’d even love to be swapped out for that smug bastard from the Golden Gate Bridge gift shop that’s been collecting dust since the Obama Administration.
The harsh light from those buzzing overheads you refuse to turn off makes me want to off myself. Seriously, do you know how many times I’ve thought about shattering? Maybe too much soap and I slip. Maybe I edge myself closer to the shelf lip — just enough to fall, to break, to be free. Maybe just a crack would finally retire me.
Alas, I know this miserable existence of yours will just transcend to the next mug in line. And while Merry Christmas 2008 has been a real dick lately, I wouldn’t wish what I go through on anyone else.
At night, I sit and wait, thinking the next morning might be the day I finally get to rest. Maybe you’ll leave and go get a damn Starbucks or something. Almost every millennial under the sun is blowing their life savings on oat milk lattes and I’m stuck with the idiot who can barely remember to change his shirt every day.
I see the sun peaking through now. You’ll be awake soon, too, unfortunately. As I take a breath, imagining life with someone who has even an ounce of self-worth, I hear the percolator start to brew. The cupboard creaks open.
Ah, shit.
Mike Miccoli is a Boston-based writer who publishes a Substack about the hilarities of being a parent. He’s also working on his debut book—a collection of humorous short stories. You can find his essays at https://therunner.substack.com.
Your Favorite Coffee Mug Hates You was originally published in Slackjaw on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
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