My Crack - A Self Portrait.

I'm not a person who's prone to addiction. I smoked for a while, decided to give it up with no problems. I drink moderately, less than once a week. I have a diet soda maybe once a month, if that. I dabble in computer games, but can step away to have other hobbies, ambitions, interests, social interactions, a job and a sex life (trust me, this is rare). I indulge in retail therapy, but rarely have problems paying my bills. I gambled on a cruise once, and maybe in Vegas, but accept the fact that the Gods of fortune do not favor me. In fact, if I'm going to waste my money on things I can't have in Vegas, I'll pay a striper. I eat like a horse, but I'm not addicted to food. I can quit any time...I swear.... Moving on.

However, my life pretty much revolves around one thing... Coffee.
I wake in the morning and think, 'I love my house and family and cars and everything, but... there's really no reason to get out of my bed. It's comfy in here. It's cold out there. Decision made. Three presses of my snooze button later and usually a bit of humanity seeps into my semi-conscious thoughts:

Wait. I have to go to work. My coffee is there. Of course, there is coffee at home in the freezer (the only way to properly retain coffee freshness), but that's my husband's coffee. Now, my husband doesn't drink any old Liberican swill, however, his coffee isn't my coffee. I pay two or so extra bucks per lb. for my coffee. And, that makes it better.

Groaning, I throw off my covers, grapple with my clothing, schpackle on some makeup, tie my hair down, make a fruit shake, ignore and/or bark at my family, and throw my ten-year-old at her elementary school. If she's lucky, she'll have time to shut the car door before I peel out of the school roundabout and take off for coffee. I mean work.

Once there, I avoid any eye-contact with people, especially the chatty ones, until I go through two reinforced steel sliders and one security door to reach my break room. On the fridge, there is a sticker that clearly states: "For Food Only, No Specimen Allowed". Sometimes, people ignore this sticker. I won't go into the details, needless to say, I don't store my food in the fridge. However, the ignored freezer contains only some sad person's Lean Cuisines and my ambrosia.

Dark French or Italian, sometimes Sumatra, coarse ground, imported, freshly roasted, Arabican beans. They're not hauled to me by a Colombian's donkey. They do not have to claim to be "good to the last drop". The "best part of waking up" is knowing that I have enough money to not have to drink Folgers.

No, indeed not. Ethiopian governments have been toppled to get me my coffee. My morning drink is steeped in the blood of Brazilians and Nicaraguans, but roasted on american soil, FAR from the reaches of Starbucks (who notoriously over-roasts to the state of scorching, thus turning what should be a strong but smooth dark roast into a bitter brew).

Chocolate notes with a citrus undertone assault my nose as I eye-ball the amount that should go into my French press (pilfered, I mean "borrowed", from my French friend which makes it... like... Frenchier). Only filtered water, from the red spout on my office Mountain Springs dispenser, heat the beans, but don't boil them overmuch. Thank you, Government spending!

 I close my eyes and inhale the scent of a tropical climate at altitudes of about 3,000 to 6,500 feet where the slower growing process concentrates the delicate flavor the Arabican bean. 4 minutes are timed with careful precision. And then, with trembling anticipation, I pour it into my favorite mug, where the lip is tilted at just the right angle to prevent inadvertent spillage.

I do not taint my coffee with creamers or milks. Do not mistake me, I hold no ill will against those that do. I just chose to enjoy my morning cup black, or lightly sweetened with a bit of Stevia.  This way, I take my much anticipated first sip and fully enjoy the dark, sensual taste of a carefully cultivated drink grown in just the right climatic conditions. Plus, I can hold onto the moral high ground that my not addiction is the healthiest there is: Calorie free, won't raise my glycemic levels, contains no artificial sweeteners, flavors, sugar, or carbonation. Probably has the most Antioxidants of anything that I will drink that day (including green tea), is a vaso-dilator, mood elevator, and just tastes divine.

After finishing about half a cup, I become aware of my surroundings. Welp, I'm already here, and my socks match, (mostly because I only buy black socks) so I might as well do some work or something. I have coffee to pay for, after all. And, now that I've had something to fuel my morning, I can work like a mother-fucker until lunch. I may need another boost around lunch time, but I try to make THAT green tea, just so I can retain my stomach lining.

I sit at my desk and listen to  people with addictions to drugs, kiddie porn, alcohol, and cigarettes, who are chained to the bench outside my door in bright orange or yellow jumpsuits.  They lament their problems and I scoff at them inwardly as I savor my elixir of life...  Because people with addictions are weak.