Hey man! First of all, your handlebar mustache is looking phenomenal. Plus I love the way you’ve rolled your fluorescent orange beanie like a little condom for your head. Very cool comment on the nature of capitalism vis-à-vis the service industry.

Anyway, I just want to apologize for asking to substitute oat milk in my honeysuckle-boysenberry latte. I see now that you weren’t just reacting as a barista. You were reacting as an artist, and I disrupted your canvas. I didn’t understand that by requesting oat milk I was destabilizing the drink’s molecular structure, threatening to curdle not just dairy but the very social contract of our interaction.

I appreciate you doing the emotional labor of educating me that my oat milk request forced you to deviate from the sacred emulsification ratio that you learned during a three-day latte symposium in Copenhagen. I now know that when you pulled that shot, you were thinking about mouthfeel and terroir of my coffee experience.

But please understand: I only asked for oat milk because I am weak. I am not strong enough to endure the consequences of lactose. I now understand that because of my deficiencies, I don’t deserve to drink a latte.

But more importantly, I am not strong enough to endure life without caffeine.

Now that I’ve apologized, I hope you will reconsider my lifetime ban at Third Place Provisions and Coffee Collective. You see, it’s the only coffee shop within a mile radius and my Nespresso machine broke last week—not that a Nespresso machine in any way matches your artistry, of course. I understand that what you do there is less “making coffee” and more “guiding a bean through its final spiritual transformation via controlled infusion.” I respect that. I have always respected that, even during the unfortunate latte incident.

But the fact of the matter is that I need my coffee. Not in a cute Etsy “Don’t Talk to Me Until I’ve Had My Coffee” novelty mug way. Yesterday, my dentist told me to open wide, and I said “you too.” I was Instagram stalking a high school friend’s cousin and accidentally liked a photo from 2014. I have started to greet my coworkers with, “What if we all just lay down?”

I have attempted alternatives. I drank tea. I even briefly considered chicory. Yesterday, in a moment I’m not proud of, I shotgunned three lukewarm Red Bulls I found in my trunk and then immediately had a panic attack on the floor. This is not sustainable.

I am not asking to be fully restored to my former standing (though I would accept it). I would welcome a probationary period—a watch list or a chaperoned pour-over, maybe? If you cannot lift the ban, I ask only that you let me stand outside the shop between the hours of 7:00 and 9:00 A.M., just within earshot of the grinder. I will close my eyes and let the sound of beans being pulverized sustain me. If you could occasionally crack the door to release a small plume of espresso-scented air, I believe I could survive on that alone.