There is a particular sort of gas station where I live, open twenty-four hours, and set at strategic points around the county; they are rinky-dink little things, somewhere between the spare shacks of the South and the sparkly food palaces of the North. We make use of their coffee pots on a regular basis. I feel that my extended acquaintance with their services entitles me to state my opinion -- their coffee tastes like fried crud.
Yes, I settled this fact quite some time ago, and yes, I'm still drinking their coffee. Why? Because when I am out day and night, dispossessed of sleep and decent food, even fried crud appeals to me, so long as it's hot.
*waits around for a new post*
ReplyDelete-- she who did too climb the mountain