Why people set their alarms and don't get up

Why do I wake up a little bit grumpy and rough around the edges on a perfect cold morning? I have everything I need (to survive) and thanks to the California food stamp assistance program, more than enough to eat. Food tastes funny on ebt; the cardboard coffee from Trader Joe's I was drinking for months was something I had learned to tolerate. I had stopped dreaming of french press stumptown or cellar door coffee roasted the day before, too dark to see through, rich with oil, hot but never boiled. All of that slipped into the past as I became increasingly inventive with my morning routine. I would have continued this from now until some other day, unseen looming on the horizon of my future had someone not told me that my coffee tasted like dirty socks. I was a tiny bit offended as I had even purchased 1/2 & 1/2 (a luxury of fat and flavor) to add to the brew. Attempting to create a drinkable cup of Trader Joe's coffee, I first tried a single cup pour over. Admittedly that was a grayish mix of hot water, milk, and with the subtle flavor of paper from the cone. Improving on that wasn't difficult. I began filling a mason jar with hot water and grounds and letting it sit for five minutes before sending it through the cone and filter. To me, this method was a huge improvement in the color, if not flavor of my mornings. The flaw was in the fact that one of my roommates decided that my two mason jars (one for brewing, one for containing) made great ToGo containers and started to take them to the barn everyday, at which point one broke, and since I am to old to keep doing other people's dishes, I had to find yet a better method. I moved to the soak simmer, which I believe is also called cowboy coffee, but since I am a civilized dressage trainer cowboy coffee sticks in the back of my throat and rubs the bottoms of my feet. This has become my preferred method. Put grounds in water, heat slowly to just below a boil, reduce heat, let stand and cool for a few minutes, filter through a fine sieve, add milk, day starts. Simple. There was the dalliance with an attempt at brewing a toddy like concoction. Soaking the grounds in cold water over night before heating them in the morning. I found this to be an extra step with no perceptible benefit. Yet, my morning still tasted like old socks and it was suggested that the weakness was neither in my preparation nor in my creativity, but was inherent in the dusty old beans. This is where ebt swoops in disguised as flavor-man wearing a mask and cape and offering me freshly roasted beans all for the price of pride and the color of my day will improve if I can just accept that I am poorer than dirt and let that be okay. I can let that be okay. My mornings, no longer stale, are filled with rich solitude and the sky before dawn.