Disclaimer: I’ve been perpetually caffeinated but at the same time not, so this piece comes from the most nonsensical parts of my brain and fingertips.

I’ve been in the magical realm of London for about two weeks (give or take a few days, depending on when your lovely eyeballs are reading this) and I have just one tiny, singular qualm to talk about with you, London.

Let’s imagine this purely-hypothetical-never-actually-happened-to-anyone scenario. You land in Heathrow, life doesn’t make sense and you nearly have a breakdown because you can’t operate the elevator, you’re disgusting and have six hours to kill. You go to an overcrowded cafe, ask for a large coffee and your doesn’t-deserve-your-nonsense barista tells you it’s one-size only. You whisper-scream “what?!” and immediately backtrack at the look of the barista’s face. You accept your fate and slink away into a corner with the tiniest espresso shot that gets lost in your giant, American hands.

Why in the name of all that’s good and pure do you insist on the tiniest of tiny espresso shots? I don’t have the palate of a refined European duchess who lazes about in a silk robe all day. Give me the entire pot of terrible, diner coffee that looks like the void and may or may not be a day old. I blame my grandfather and his Mr. Coffee (which was around during the time of the dinosaurs) for this flaw of mine.

Getting a second shot of espresso is on par with going to the dentist’s office. Getting a second cup of coffee is a boss lady who knows how to walk on a cobblestone road with stilettos. This is an infallible, scientifically proven statement.

The size discrepancy isn't just plaguing me. I went to a stand-up comedy show and the comedian talked about how he went to a coffee shop in New York and they gave him a cup the size of a bucket. When he mentioned that, apparently the barista said that it was “freedom-sized.” So here I am, missing my freedom bucket.