What the can says: Real crisp bitterness! Flavor that won't stop!

What I say: Chemicals galore in an unappealing blue can. Flavor that will make you angry.

What the can says: 68% less sugar. A low-sugar canned coffee that's delicious can after can.

What I say: Blue can, my world was plunged into stygian darkness when you entered my life. I feel I've been hoodwinked.

Can: I feel I've been kidnapped. I was chilling in a kiosk at Shinjuku station, daydreaming, when you entered mine. And now I'm in Chitose Funabashi, expunged of all joy.

Me: Stygian, I said.

Can: All I know is that I liked Shinjuku better. The kiosk lady was missing a tooth and had terrible dermatitis, but she never insulted me. Her name was Etsuko. She would pat me, so gently, when I sobbed, which was often.

Me: And then I took you home and drank you.

Can: You didn't even wipe me off first. A few days ago, a homeless man slobbered on me. We called it "The Homeless Man Incident." And now you have his juice in your body.

Me: The thing is, Shinjuku frightens me now. It never used to, but somewhere along the way the crowds became malevolent rather than invigorating. I'm getting old, blue can. Nascent crow's-feet. Women no longer look at me.

Can: I'm a sip away from oblivion, and you tell me such things? What do you want from me? Other than acknowledge that you used the word "stygian."

Me: I want you to tell me that I'm still a star, dammit. I want you to tell me that I'm special and attractive and headed for great things.

Can: Ravaged man, I know only this: When you wake up tomorrow morning, the vending machines and convenience stores and train station kiosks will be freshly stocked with canned coffee.

Me: Goodbye, blue can. Thank you.

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