I've not written in a while less than poetry (vernerable, I hold it) so this may chop your block a little.

It's just a bit of something that I found out about coffee.

It all started with, as a good many things do, with a friend.  Nathan Weller, drinks coffee. His addiction started ages before mine and was some sort of, in the infinite wisdom of God, outcropping of his personality. It fit him perfectly. 

My first cup was a spiteful brew, and darkly inhibited by bitter tastes and my naturally dull palate.  I don't remember who made my first cup but their dubious skill was what most people peg as "office rat" level.  Talking it over with friends, they would laugh gently and nudge each other, sipping on their frothy concoctions and dribbling from the lower lips edge would come a praise or two of the caffiened beverages benefits, one or two heaped on the pile of miracles coffee could offer me. 

Much like the benefits I'd hear of mushrooms from my later compatriots, but I was open to new experiences at this point, fresh from my high school's first year, ready to take on a sophisticated beverage that had vices few and not many could take upon themselves.

I reach ahead of myself, though.  At my youth, I took upon myself to drink coffee. It was Nathan, mostly. I blame it all on him.  This addiction has its roots in his innocent, though persistent, insistence on the benefits of coffee.

Granted, the global media, your movies, books, cd's and rags surely pushed me too drink, but it was Nathan who'd make me my first drink.

He pulsed it up, frothing and grinding, twisting the machine and contorting wands to give me my first cappuccino.

I was enthralled, the process was complex, and his fingers whirled, hooked into the entirety and my first sip had yet to reach my lips? This was my relationship with coffee for the first year, because as soon as that frothy wave hit my lips, I hated it. Couldn't stand coffee. It was a bitter bean, thrown at me from hell, sinking, tip to lung, and burning the whole way. No flavor nor sugar would make it better.  Where was the ambrosia, a heaven in head as well as heart? 

I sat musing, putting up Rubens finest pose with a single addition.  A straight arm to please the athlete with tipping cup, all focused on the sink to pour out that drafted cap.  Yes, I dropped coffee. 

Not for long.  Not for long. 

This is part of it, but it is very inconvenient to finish or start the story as of now, so much love to whomever will read this and a continuing blessing to all who love will touch.  Maybe I should stick with poetry, I may hide in its vaguerees..