I woke up this morning like a man who’d been unplugged from the wall overnight. No coffee. No aroma. No brain‑tickle. Just me, fasting, staring at the coffee pot like it’s an ex who moved on too quickly. The smell alone usually flips the breaker in my skull and powers everything back on, but today? Today coffee was a myth. A rumor. A shimmering mirage in the desert of my kitchen.
And because my brain was running on fumes and spite, I reached for some obscure country 45 — the kind where you squint at the label hoping it’s actually some wild rockabilly burner disguised under a cowboy hat. It wasn’t. But it was still pretty good. And honestly, where else are you going to stumble across this kind of weird, dusty gem unless you’re following me like a vinyl‑obsessed cryptid tracker?
Soon I’ve gotta hit the road for the doctor appointment, which means the majority of my morning will be spent driving, pretending the CEU call is riveting, and plotting small obscure shops to hit for a little crate digging. Maybe a little “I deserve this” record‑store victory lap. And absolutely — ABSOLUTELY — that first cup of coffee after the 10am test. The one that’s going to hit my bloodstream like a revival tent miracle.
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