Your coffee stinks and we are sick of smelling it. To many, this comment is confusing and they think they disagree.

This is because there is a universal acceptance and expectation of coffee. We accept its intrusive smell and people are expected to consume and enjoy it. Society is willfully addicted to coffee, which has given the fact that coffee stinks a pass. Not just a pass but you’ve been fooled into enjoying its stench, we have normalized it, and you even crave it!

Now I know most likely you are a coffee drinker and feel coffee is a beautiful, warm, comforting aroma. A sacred ritual performed to get you ‘through your day’ or that enables you ‘to allow someone to speak to you…” But from the outside for us non-coffee drinkers it looks a little like a cup of “what the hell are you talking about?”

I am not saying I am against your coffee. Drink away! I am just mystified about the lack of fear you have for needing it and greatly depending on it.

For me ‘needing’ anything to function feels like a self-made prison. Other than water and food (with flavour) I am not dependent on anything I consume in my body. Yet for most people, this is no big deal! Let's just make sure we are talking about the same thing.

We have adopted a culture where aggressively relying on consuming dirty bean water with properties that influence our energy, mood and body is the norm.

How is this ok? Is this what normal is?

People who accidentally skip their morning coffees can experience headaches, fatigue, and a level of crabbiness that prompts people to ask them if they have had their cup! Does this not scare you?

Coffee addiction was my fear when I was younger. I hated the idea that one day I might need it. “I cannot survive without my coffee.” Not me!

That type of control terrifies me and allows me to understand why the untethered grown elephant doesn’t escape or the bird that is finally let out of its cage doesn’t fly away. Not only do we believe we are trapped, we want to be trapped, the feeling of the crutch that allows us to rely on something other than ourselves.

This is a very weird thing that we all think is normal. It is not normal.

We are so afraid of relying on ourselves that we allowed commercialism and media to brainwash us to believe coffee is normal, and that it is our solution. Now we are so far down the rabbit hole we forgot that we do not need it!

We are the solution. Together, individually, and collectively. The universe put everything we need in these miraculously perfect balanced bodies of ours.

All you need is you (and 8 cups of water a day).

No coffee. No Starbucks. No daily foreign substances. Nada! Just beautiful simple you. A being of love, light, and endless possibility.

So please stop offering me coffee. No, the problem isn’t that I haven’t tried great coffee. The coffee from Italy, Colombia, Ecuador, Jamaica, a cat’s butt, or Willy Wonka tastes like tar. For me, coffee still tastes like it did the first time you had it. A warm cup of Yuck! Remember? before you had to mask its grossness with sugars, extracts, sweeteners, and milk-like substances all poured into a branded paper cup in order to feel ‘ready’.

So I challenge you; drop the cup, mug, espresso, frappe, grande medium roasted macchiato misto and realize you are not giving up something but gaining your freedom and the power to realize your potential substance free.

No beverage is going to own me, I own me.

I will not be captive ✊🏾

One more thing! Did you like this article? If you want to read more like it, you can sign up for a Medium Membership for only $5. It helps support me and other writers like me!

Nicholas Rockey Simon writes articles, and stories and working on his first book. He is obsessive about helping people see themselves more clearly. Check him on Instagram (@nicawho). He is working on his website, so stay tuned, apparently, it will be pretty badass.

Of course, black people could watch the popular show Friends at any time but like me, many chose not to.

But something happened last year that I missed. Somehow this major, milestone act of redemption from a producer of one of the biggest shows in tv history acknowledged that maybe she could have done better.

Marta Kauffman, the producer of the popular 90s iconic show ‘Friends’, sought redemption for the show's lack of diversity nearly 20 years after it was off the air.

Friends ran from 1994 – 2004 and features a group of six white heterosexual friends living in Greenwich Village of the historically diverse New York City.

The show was heavily criticized for its lack of diversity and the ‘white-washing’ of New York. In its 10-year run, it only introduced two recurring characters of colour. From my limited memory, even the background actors were all white. (I’ve only seen a handful or two of episodes)

“I’ve learned a lot in the last 20 years,” Kauffman said in a Zoom interview. “Admitting and accepting guilt is not easy. It’s painful looking at yourself in the mirror. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t know better 25 years ago,” the talented writer said.

Nobody made her do this! Kauffman pulled a strong move of reflection and admitted she didn’t get it then but she gets it now.

“It took me a long time to begin to understand how I internalized systemic racism,”

Kauffman announced she was pledging $4 million to her alma mater, Brandeis University, to fund an endowed chair in the school’s African & African American studies department, one of the oldest in the country.

“I’ve been working really hard to become an ally, an anti-racist. And this seemed to me to be a way that I could participate in the conversation from a white woman’s perspective” said Kauffman.

Kauffman's apology is not an easy thing to do. It needs to be commended, highlighted, and broadcasted for all to see. Yes, it was news and run by most media but it wasn’t big enough news. An example of this magnitude helps us to see this type of growth as possible. We need to amplify the wins in this battle of understanding one another.

BRAVO MS. KAUFFMAN! I will now watch your show. The lack of POC made it impossible for me to watch before. I was distracted by it.

It added to a feeling I couldn’t put my finger on at the time but it felt like you were saying the world was better without me in it.

The real world already felt like that in so many places. I couldn’t choose that feeling with my remote. Whenever I saw some funny Friends clip or was forced to watch it, I felt sad. Like why am I not invited? Looks like a good time…

It’s not that I wanted black ‘Friends’ it’s just always going to hurt when you feel left out. In some ways, the pain felt deeper than hurt feelings but like something foundational that confirms how the world sees people like me.

This is why ‘black’ shows and BET saved me as a kid. The Cosby Show was formative, A Different World was inspiring and real, and Living Single felt like a snapshot of me one day, adulting. Friends could have played a major part in that ‘come up’ for millions of kids like me both black and white, figuring themselves out and the world. That could have been a hell of a legacy.

White and black Friends!

Friends could have used its clever writing, relatable characters, and storytelling skills to break that ice on prime time. It’s not a secret that the best way to stimulate change is through demonstration; a show always trumps a lecture.

Although, the level of insight needed to include black storylines and make them feel authentic may have been too much, especially considering the lack of representation of writers that were people of colour: different day, different article. Yet, I dream.

It also amazes me how many people didn’t notice. When speaking to my white friends and even some POC they weren’t at all distracted by this white version of New York. Some even tried to explain it away like well in a big city lots of people don’t really have diverse friend groups.

If you’re trying to sell me that in New York City, 6 ‘Friends’ have zero people of colour in their lives not even a barista at Central Perk? (local coffee spot), I ain’t buying.

Although it may seem that ‘Friends’ wasn’t entirely wrong as recent studies demonstrate, most white Americans don’t have close black friends still in 2023.

What Friends did was miss out on an opportunity to be a part of changing this, back then. To be a trailblazer in demonstrating how things could be instead of following the status quo and normalizing how they were. It may have taken almost 30 years but Marta has arrived.

“…until in my next production, I can do it right, it isn’t over. I want to make sure from now on in every production I do that I am conscious in hiring people of color and actively pursue young writers of color. I want to know I will act differently from now on. And then I will feel unburdened.”

Better late than never and I believe her. For now, it’s time to join the party and catch up on old Friends seasons.

The one with the black guy watching.

Will you be watching friends? Does this change anything? Did you even know this was a thing?

Let me know in the comments.

Did you like this? Give it a little love below ❤️

Want more? Stay tuned to my upcoming Newsletter — To Unknow

Monday night was scary. Damar Hamlin made a routine football play when he tackled Bengals wide receiver Tee Higgins. He immediately got up from the tackle only to collapse back down a second later.

As football fans, we are used to cringing when we see a big hit occur and we collectively sigh relief when both parties get up, seemingly unharmed.

But we all knew right away that whatever happened to Damar Hamlin was something different. But was it?

Obviously, the outcome was extreme, rare and very unfortunate. But try backing away from the idea that this level of violence is normal and quickly become reminded that every football hit can lead to something terrible.

Injury in football is not new. Concussions have finally become a major concern. This is evidenced by the ‘precautions’ the league has taken to try to limit hits to the head. The issue is documented in a based on a true story movie starring Will Smith which introduced the world to Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE). A term used to describe brain degeneration likely caused by repeated head traumas.

The film outlines that concussions are not the only issue and the measures taken to limit headshots do not account for the impact trauma that can still cause mini concussions and head trauma.

This is not news, yet it feels new for me to say. Contact sports are very dangerous.

We have desensitized to the violence therefore the innocent Hamlin/Higgins collision felt scary because that basic of a hit shouldn't have put someone into cardiac arrest. Right? We scratch our heads. Weird.

Yet these same types of hits that NFL players take repeatedly play after play, game after game, amount to similar destruction, just less public, far less dramatic, and slower.

As a society, we need to decide what is the cost of entertainment and how much are we willing to pay?

Would it really hurt NFL football that much to go to a flag — limited contact league?

The game would still be played by the fastest, most athletic titans the Americas has to offer. It would still be football. We would just reduce the risk of injuries like Hamlin’s and other uglies occurring again drastically.

This feels like the most overdue discussion that we need to have with ourselves. What are we doing? This is ancient Rome and we are all there cheering on gladiators as they destroy each other.

It is important to note this happened on prime-time tv, under the Monday Night lights of America's biggest league, featuring two of their best teams. This ensured ‘everyone’ was watching or at least paying attention. If this isn't a sign to stop and question, I do not want to see what the sign will be.

This won’t change unless we as the fans decide we want it to change. The NFL ‘cares’ but how much can a corporation actually care? End of the day they are going to produce the best product to make the most money. We can not blame them. We can blame ourselves. We buy the tickets, the streaming packages, the jerseys, and fund this whole archaic game to keep this show alive.

What happened Monday was terribly sad. I hope Damar Hamlin recovers fully. His injury helps to bring this conversation to the forefront and we should take this opportunity to have it.

The note read.

“Stay away, more people will die.

My beginning was my end.

mAcrony”

Handwritten, red ink in cursive with little tears dotting the I’s and left on my windshield. It was tucked in a red envelope. ‘Detective Frank Laius’ is written on the front. Laius?

I’ve stared at this note for 5 hours and still, I stare. Nothing. I hadn’t entered it into evidence yet. It feels… personal.

I thumbed my files.

The murder of Ian Austin. Found bound in his room starved to death. Mark Young had razor blade slits all over his throat. Orville Uriss was beaten with a bat. Ron Smith strangled with a tie.

Each victim was missing for 6 days, before being discovered on the 7th day. Today, Owen Nicholson has been missing for 6 days.

All young men. All 21 years old. No other connections.

The first body was found on Saturday, March 2nd with a new body found every Saturday for the last 4 weeks. Today is Friday.

The note stares at me.

‘Stay away…’

did I get close?

‘mAcrony?’

Is that a name? I tap the steering wheel; the note is written on a betting slip from the casino. For me, the Royal Casino may as well be called Gloria. The night we met there led to 6 drug-filled days.

I rub my eyes. I feel old. 16 years as Detective Frank Thebe must make up for 8 years of Frank the mess. Right?

“…more people will die.” Stay away OR more people will die? Or IF I stay away, more people will die?

Stay away from what?

Orville, a non-smoker, curiously had a carton of unopened Drake cigarettes on his bed.

When I smoked, that was my brand. My mind slips to my bartending days, days as a professional partier with not a care.

Coffee and clues, I have one but I need both. Fred’s Café has assisted me before. The back booths' leather seats feel custom for deliberation or using coffee to drown inebriation. I’ve done both.

The low lampshade over the table lightly swings in response to any hustle or bustle in the café. The light dances small directed spotlights on whatever is under it.

I spread the photos and the note over the table. The ‘beginning is my end’ part of the note haunts me. I know it means something and it feels like I should know.

Ding. The door rings as a lady walks shaking tears of rain off her umbrella. The bulb sways across the photos. A smartly dressed man whisks by to the washroom. The shade changes direction, swishing over the photos. The note blows off the table and lands with the casino logo staring at me.

The color reminds me of Gloria’s hair, strawberry blond. She had to choose with her heart; I was too young and high; I chose to stay away. Those days were not my best, foggy nights, heavy mornings, and bags of regrets.

I pick up the note—the light bobs over Ian Austin’s photo. The Lucky Gin logo glows beside him, funny, that was my gin. The light swishes, and a green bottle of Jimmy’s Irish Whiskey shimmers unopened on Mark Young's desk. I used to drink that too. According to their friends, these lads didn’t drink.

Ron Smith, cocaine cut into lines on his dresser, although, the toxicology report says he was clean. Owen Nicholson had unopened condoms thrown all over his floor, during a struggle maybe?

What am I missing?

(Have you solved it? Please make your predictions in the comments).

Here’s another short story of mine.

Nicholas Simon is a writer and sales professional. He is a Canadian living in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and three kids. He writes short stories, articles, and other peculiarities that dawn upon him.

Who Am I? was originally published in The Lark on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I hate when the Weatherman is Right

ugh…

A weatherman’s average accuracy is 80–90%, unfortunately, my life feels even more predictable than that.

Although I respect the weatherman and his meteorology, his accuracy can leave me feeling blue. Generally, I like weatherpeople or at least I feel indifferent towards them. Admittedly, I do find it hard not to get slightly annoyed at the audacity of a person that feels they can accurately predict the future.

This person is reminiscent of a bad teacher telling a student full of potential but reluctant to do the work that they will never amount to anything or a boy’s basketball coach telling the players statistically how unlikely it is for them to make the NBA.

It's a potent dose of reality offered, even forced upon you. That you never requested.

I know, take it easy it's just the weather, right?

Well, think of it this way. We are all trying to do something, accomplish something get somewhere, become someone, right?

Or at least we like to think we are.

There is that glimmer of potential, that seed, some people’s seeds are as small as watermelon seeds others large and thick like a mango.

I was always told mine was large like the Coco de Mer or Sea Coconut. Heritor of the world's largest seed, 40lbs of seed potential.

Many are able to plant, water, bloom and live off the harvest of their seed, especially small seeders. They aren't expecting to build an orchard, a planter on the windowsill could do, perhaps a large oak in the backyard.

For the rest of us, that isn't the case, especially us large seeders.

For most of us, somewhere in our minds, we feel like something will push us into action, some moment will occur that accelerates us or provides us with the right conditions or soil, to plant and realize that potential!

The weatherman’s forecast forces us to take our heads out of the clouds and look and see what’s actually coming, the reality of it all.

When the weatherman is wrong he creates flexibility, the existence of the possibility that something terrific may happen, it leaves room for the spontaneity of the universe and impulsiveness of oneself.

Perhaps tomorrow can be different!

Instead of the humdrum expected, maybe tomorrow my life can be unexpected. If the sun comes out when it was supposed to rain perhaps the universe will surprise me as well or better yet, maybe I will surprise myself.

Whenever the weatherman is right, so was my teacher, the NBA percentages my grade 8 coach gave me seem like solid well-timed advice. They are no longer people who just didn't get me.

In other words, if the sun comes out on schedule, it reminds me of how basic I have allowed my life to be. It highlights the feeling that my seed could end up unplanted and that many tomorrows have come and gone and I have done nothing to grow that potential and as sure as the 5-day forecast, I will continue to do nothing.

That’s depressing, therefore I hate when the weatherman is right.

Don’t you?

Here I detail why Saturdays are the biggest motivators in your life.

Nicholas Simon is a writer and sales professional. He is a Canadian living in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and three kids. He writes short stories, articles, and other peculiars that dawn upon him.

The history of Black History Month (BHM) is interesting in Canada. Many know the American story how it began as “Negro History Week” in 1926. In 1976 President Ford made the growing trend of celebrating a “Black History Month” official.

In Canada, it wasn’t until 1995 when Liberal MP Jean Augustine, motioned for the month to be recognized in Canada that it was so. 1995, 24 years ago! That is in most of our lifetimes and has bothered me since that day.

At the ripe old age of 15, I remember thinking, “Why did this take so long? Why did it even need to happen?” Isn't Black history also — Canadian or American history?

Why do we need to distinguish a History’s race?

Then I thought back to social studies classes, and other than slavery lectures, and visions of a poor, malnourished Africa, there was no mention of Black Canadians, Americans or Black Anythings.

A friend asked, “Why care? It's just school.” ~ “It's my history, I'm Black. What, The Canadian government doesn’t care about me?"

Years later I realized that wasn’t why it bothered me. Yes, I felt like ‘they’ didn't care about me, worse though I realized they didn’t think we were the same.

“They don't consider my history theirs, so how can the present and the future be ours?” ~ me

This is the issue with Black History Month. It is separate. A chiseled out period of time where we recall ‘Black History’. This is harmful to all people.

There is no such thing as Black History. Just as there is no such thing as white or East Indian history.

There is just history. That's all that should matter.

Those who wrote school history books didn’t deem it necessary to include blacks in Canadian and American history. So far, the solution to this has been the addition of Black History Month. It helps to educate people that the history of black people is not simply slavery or documentaries on crime and imprisonment in the United States.

Black people have been quality contributors to society and share a country, history, present, and future with fellow citizens. BHM showcases this and yes, that is better than being left out entirely, but hardly the bee’s knees.

Now I am a descendant of “take what you can get” people, hence why Oxtail, pigs feet, and chicken wings are black culture staple foods. We make the most of the scraps.

This is why Black History Month rings with pride! People of various ethnic descents own it, embrace it and make it glow. Therefore it is impossible for me not to take advantage of the opportunity to celebrate greatness. Although, it is hard to ignore the fact that this compromise feels patronizing and outdated. We should no longer be content with the scraps!

Black History Month highlights that black people are separate, unconnected, and not the same as the citizens of other races in the country in which they are from. The country that they call home and have helped build.

History Is Best Served Integrated

The recent debates over the sanctity of Civil War monuments reminded us of this lesson. In the US and Canada black history and white history are not connected. Both histories occurred at the same time but perspectives vary greatly. Instead of being apathetic to the feelings of one another we fight over what the history means to ‘our people’.

Because we are separate. It is still black pain. Not their pain, not their past.

Our past is not their history.

And that is a sad reality.

Living in that (sad) reality makes it no surprise movements like Black Lives Matter (BLM) are born.

Black lives have not mattered for so long that BLM is the response. Just as BHM was the response of lack of mention in history books.

Like any relationship, in order to be connected, parties must share a past or have ‘history’. That history acts as the bedrock for their future and brings reflection, empathy, and compassion to the present.

Why would black lives matter, that sounds like a you problem?

Movements need a plotted transition. How does it switch to ALL LIVES MATTER or ALL HISTORY IS OUR HISTORY. Without this transition, we remain divided, without connection and doomed to be content with scraps.

Our history, your history, our lives your lives. These are the same, need to be viewed as the same and treated as such or what were we even fighting for? 

Why did we find a way to start telling black history? Why are we out protesting black lives matter if not for parity? What would we prefer Black History Month or connected history? How do we come together?

I agree with celebrating BHM but I do so reluctantly. BLM is a problematic solution that still gets the job done, for now. The reality slaps me in the face Feb 1st of every year since I was 15.

Black History Month remains important and I will always recognize and participate.

I wait for the day when uttering the words ‘black history’ seems extraneous and actually silly.

What can we do to get us there, that transition? Ultimately we need to be together and Black History Month is an annual reminder that we are not.

And that frustrates me.