For me, fixing a cup of coffee is a private matter. From years of practice, I’ve learned to furtively palm sweetener packets and hold them tightly together, tearing them as one, so it’s impossible for a casual observer to tell how many I actually use. Why? Well, I use a lot. And I mean a lot.

My father recently offered to pick me up a coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts, but he almost refused when I told him what I wanted. To him, ordering my coffee—with skim milk and five Splendas—was as embarrassing as if I’d asked him to buy a jumbo box of tampons.

My friends regularly tease me about how sweet I like coffee, yet I find myself judging those with tastes even more indulgent than mine—O ye lowly disciples of the white chocolate mocha and bottled Starbucks Frappuccino! But why? We’d never criticize someone for a preference for seafood, Russian dressing, or whole wheat bread. There’s no reason why one’s choice of drink should be conflated with a character flaw.

At this point, there are now a million permutations of “coffee.” The barista culture has risen around (and fueled) our natural predisposition for finickiness. From an elegant cappuccino to some New Jersey diner mug-tar, there’s a coffee out there for everyone. You may add or subtract espresso shots, foam, ice, soymilk, and sugar-free hazelnut syrup as you see fit; you are free to project our personalities onto our drink to whatever extent you choose.

People who drink black coffee do so with a certain macho pride, as if it were a feat of strength. In pop culture, black coffee has become a meme. It’s the John Wayne of caffeinated beverages—a metonym of stoicism, intensity, and general badassery. Every hack screenwriter knows that the fastest way to toughen up a character is to have him or her order a cup of black coffee. In the same way, its converse is a ready-brew instant joke. On “The Office,” Michael Scott drinks milk and sugar (hold the coffee); on “Parks and Recreation,” Leslie Knope likes hers smothered in whipped cream. The difference between black and instant coffee has become as vast as the difference between scotch rocks and appletinis.

While there’s an argument to be made for appreciating coffee’s natural flavor, as a utilitarian drinker, I don’t find it too compelling. I know, I know, there’s Jamaican Blue Mountain, there’s Tanzanian peaberry—there are plenty of obscure beans to delight the connoisseur. After all, coffee is an acquired taste. But so is anything, I would imagine, if you work hard enough at acquiring it.

When it comes to coffee, I say: to each his own. It should be an unalienable human right to enjoy what you eat and drink. Anyway, under the anonymity of the lid, who can tell the difference?

Molly O. Fitzpatrick ’11, a Crimson arts comper, is an English concentrator in Winthrop House.