I drink bullet coffee, and I make it myself because I hate

Host: The morning sun bled through the window blinds, slicing the quiet apartment into bars of soft gold and shadow. The air smelled faintly of toasted bread and burnt ambition — that particular mix found only in big cities, where even breakfast feels like a statement.

In the small kitchen, a coffee grinder hummed like a restless machine dreaming of work. Jack stood by the counter, stirring something thick and brown in a chipped mug. Jeeny watched from the stool, her legs crossed, a small notebook resting on her lap.

Jeeny: “You’re doing it again.”

Jack: “Doing what?”

Jeeny: “That… bullet coffee ritual. Butter, coconut milk, and raw coffee. You look like a chemist trying to summon energy instead of drinking it.”

Jack smirked, swirling the steaming mixture.
Jack: “Huda Kattan does it. She said, ‘I drink bullet coffee, and I make it myself because I hate coffee. I get a shot of raw coffee, mix it with butter from grass-fed cows and coconut milk. It's amazing.’ She turned it into a beauty hack. Me — I’m turning it into survival.”

Host: The steam curled up like a ghost between them, wrapping their faces in soft, wavering light. Outside, the city yawned awake — horns, footsteps, the faint hum of early life pushing against the glass.

Jeeny: “You don’t even like coffee.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s why it works. It’s not about liking it. It’s about efficiency. This little concoction fuels my brain for hours. It’s logic in a cup.”

Jeeny laughed softly, shaking her head.
Jeeny: “Logic? You’re blending butter into coffee, Jack. That’s not logic — that’s alchemy.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his grey eyes flicking toward her, his mouth curving into that familiar half-smile — the kind that carried both arrogance and exhaustion.

Jack: “You say alchemy like it’s a bad thing. People waste half their lives chasing comfort. Huda figured it out — you don’t need to love what sustains you. You just need it to work.”

Jeeny: “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Jack: “It’s the truest. You think every artist loves their process? Every worker loves their job? No — they love the results. Huda hates coffee but drinks it for focus. I hate mornings but live through them for progress. The world runs on what we tolerate — not what we love.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes lingered on him — studying, questioning. A faint breeze slipped through the open window, carrying the distant sound of laughter from the street below.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the problem? We’ve stopped wanting joy in the small things. Everything has to have a purpose — a measurable return. Even drinking coffee becomes a productivity hack. Whatever happened to just… living?”

Jack: “Living doesn’t pay the rent, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Neither does drinking butter.”

Host: Her words struck with soft humor, but they hung in the air with quiet weight. Jack looked down at his cup, watching the surface swirl like a restless universe.

Jack: “You think I don’t want joy? I just learned it’s unreliable. Discipline lasts longer than happiness.”

Jeeny: “But happiness gives discipline meaning. Otherwise, it’s just endurance.”

Jack: “Maybe endurance is what keeps people like Huda — or anyone successful — alive in the chaos. You don’t have to love the process; you just have to respect it.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when the process consumes you?”

Host: The sound of a dripping faucet punctuated her question. The light shifted, casting half of Jack’s face in shadow. He didn’t answer immediately.

Jack: “Then maybe that’s the price. Every generation trades something. We traded stillness for progress.”

Jeeny: “And beauty for branding.”

Jack: “Branding is beauty now. You just don’t like how it looks.”

Jeeny: “No — I don’t like that it’s all for show. Bullet coffee, biohacking, green juice… people pretend it’s about health or empowerment, but it’s about control. Control over age, energy, image. It’s fear disguised as lifestyle.”

Jack: “And what’s wrong with wanting control? We’re all falling apart anyway. Some of us just want to slow the decay.”

Jeeny: “There’s a difference between slowing decay and denying life. When Huda said she hates coffee but drinks it anyway, I think she was being honest — but also trapped. Trapped in the idea that everything we consume has to serve a higher purpose. That pleasure itself isn’t enough.”

Host: A moment passed — quiet, suspended, heavy with reflection. Jack took a long sip, grimaced slightly, then chuckled under his breath.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? You make it sound tragic, but maybe it’s just adaptation. We evolve — biologically, emotionally, commercially. Maybe this is just evolution in a cup.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Evolution doesn’t strip the soul; it expands it. We used to gather over coffee to talk, to dream, to be human. Now we optimize it to survive our calendars. That’s not growth. That’s surrender.”

Jack: “Surrender to what?”

Jeeny: “To the illusion that efficiency equals meaning.”

Host: Her voice softened then, trembling slightly — not in weakness, but in ache. The morning light caught the edge of her face, and for a brief second, she looked fragile, almost translucent.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? I think people drink bullet coffee not because they hate coffee — but because they hate slowing down. They hate the silence between the sips.”

Jack: “And you? You’d rather drown in romance than reality?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But at least I’d be alive in it.”

Host: The room fell still. The grinder had stopped. The only sound now was the ticking of the clock, steady, relentless — like time reminding them of its authority.

Jack’s eyes met hers — a silent collision between logic and longing.

Jack: “So what do you want, Jeeny? To live in poetry while the rest of us run on caffeine and code?”

Jeeny: “I want to taste life, not just hack it.”

Jack: “And I want to build something that lasts. Even if it tastes bitter.”

Host: He took another sip, slower this time, and for once didn’t grimace. Jeeny smiled faintly, as if watching a small miracle.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right — maybe it’s about survival. But even survival needs sweetness sometimes.”

Jack: “And maybe sweetness needs purpose to last.”

Host: The sunlight had fully entered the room now, flooding everything in soft amber. The steam from Jack’s cup rose and caught the light, turning into a small, glowing halo before vanishing.

Jeeny closed her notebook, her eyes still fixed on him.
Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the balance — to find sweetness in the purpose, and purpose in the sweetness.”

Jack: “That’s poetic for a caffeine skeptic.”

Jeeny laughed.
Jeeny: “And that’s sentimental for a cynic with butter in his coffee.”

Host: Their laughter broke the heaviness like sunlight through clouds. Jack handed her the cup. She hesitated, then took a cautious sip — her face twisting in playful disgust.

Jeeny: “God, that’s awful.”

Jack: “Told you. It’s not about liking it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it’s about sharing it.”

Host: She passed the cup back. Jack smiled — a real one this time. The city outside roared to life, but in that small kitchen, time seemed to pause — two people caught between habit and hope, sipping at the strange alchemy of being human.

And as the last of the steam rose, curling into invisible air, it left behind something neither logic nor poetry could name — a quiet understanding that even the bitter things we make for ourselves can carry the warmth of meaning, if only shared.