A cup of coffee was wastefully splattered all over the sidewalk. I noticed it while walking to my train to go home and immediately felt bad for the person who must have dropped their hot coffee on the ground instead of getting to drop it in the lap of someone who actually deserved it, bigly.

To make up for that, I had to get a coffee to smash of my own. Studies show that if you see a splattered coffee cup and don’t suddenly feel the irresistible urge to go get a coffee to smash, too, you’re probably a psychopath.

So, naturally, I went to the nearest coffee shop, got a coffee, and came back to this same spot. I smashed my coffee on the sidewalk. I compared it to the original. But it wasn’t the same. My splatter was nowhere near as long. And to my terror, my coffee didn’t reach anyone’s lap, either. I had to try again.

I got another coffee, came back to my spot, lifted it high above my head, and grunted like a person who hates coffee as I smashed it into the ground. Better? No. It wasn’t. This splatter had no shape or form–just looked like a disappointing, giant caffeine obliteration. The only good part about it was that there was no one around me to see my failure of not spilling the coffee on a deserving party’s lap. There must have been a secret to this that I still haven’t mastered yet. So, I got another coffee and came back.

I raised this coffee to my eye-level, concentrated on the cup for a moment, yelled violently like person who loves coffee but hasn’t had their daily fix yet, pinky up, took a sip, and satisfyingly walked to my train where I sat down, accidentally bumped into the passenger next to me, and spilled my hot coffee on my lap.