After the coffee machine in my place of employment’s kitchen broke for the fifth time in three weeks today, I came to the following conclusion: I am an unwilling participant in some sort of sadistic science experiment.

Coffee machines simply do not “break.” They’re like alarm clocks, blue jeans or tooth brushes in that regard – once you have one, decades go by before you need another. With that indisputable fact in place, it stands to reason that the only possible explanation for our coffee machine’s repeated breakdowns is foul play.

I don’t know where these mad scientists are hiding, but I know they are following my every move. When I take two Advil because of a mid-morning caffeine headache, they are there. When I slap myself hard across the face in order to wake up, they are watching. When I rob the local Starbucks during my lunch break, they write it down in their clipboards.

At least I’ve kept my sanity through it all.