This morning, I went to the Am*oco-style fake-coffee machine down the hall for a hot chocolate-y treat, since it's actually quite cold in Atlanta right now and I was a bit shivery.

Emphasis there on the "-y" I've appended to "chocolate," above. You wouldn't ever actually mistake this stuff for actual chocolate. But it’ll do in a pinch.

Except that on Saturday my roommate bought two dark chocolate bars that contain about five-gabazillion-% cocoa from the Farmer’s Market. And now I really can know no other chocolate. I’m telling you, this stuff is hardly even sweet. No spoonful of sugar, just the dessert equivalent of –well, think, “unwholesome” and also “real quick.”

Now I’m a ruined woman.

I know I’ll never drink the fake chocolate stuff ever again. Which is just one small, positive side-effect of being a ruined woman.

Because after taking two sips of the machine stuff this morning, I just winced, set it down on my desk and forgot about it. And by the time just one hour had elapsed, the stuff had separated and morphed into its true, freakish form. Like “V.”
It had strange-colored oils floating atop the brown liquid, which had lost its inviting patina and was now tinged a sickly-green. I'm not kidding. I tossed it fast, before it had a chance to eat through the cup and down through my desk.


Anyhoo, I’ll write a real post in a bit. Promise. Stay the heck tuned.