To the water droplets whom it may concern,
As I put down the prize of a morning well woken, I realize that a sticky puddle has redecorated the perfect clutter on my desk. Did I spill something already? No, this puddle is the result of you, the condensation on my #54 iced coffee.
Since the first time I tasted the delectable duo of ice cubes and coffee beans, you have plagued my very existence with your pervasive molten self. In a world where only the chic survive, how do you expect me to both nurture a frozen caffeine addiction and wear anything made of silk?
I am angry with your existence, an emotion I thought reserved only for two periods: exam and menstrual. I am confused as to how you could even exist. Does my cup have pores? If so, how does an inanimate object sweat? How is water born of plastic? I just don’t understand why this happens. Yeah sure, I could like find a nerd to explain it to me, but I mean more on an existential level.
You and your evil minion, the soggy napkin, conspire to bring negative energy to my iced drinking experience. If moisture is the essence of wetness and wetness is the essence of beauty, why are you so fugly?
LEAVE ME AND MY VENTI ALONE. You cause emotional nausea, anxiety of wetness and a profound need for a coaster. And if I wipe you down, you just come fucking back. You’re the Chumbawamba of brunch.
So please in the name of all that is holy in our beloved betchdom, disa-fucking-pear forever. Nobody likes you. Everyone hates you. Except for soggy napkin, he’s trying to fuck.
I Respect Wood
P.S. I’ve found the solution. Styrofoam cups. Contrary to popular belief, plastic makes it impossible.