The Things I Do for Coffee.

This morning, I headed to the kitchen, where my MoccaMaster was waiting for me, calling out.  I went through the motions almost subconsciously.  Fill the reservoir, grind the Death Wish (that’s a coffee, by the way.  More precisely, THE Coffee.), and grab the box of environmentally-friendly bamboo coffee filters…

Only there were no filters.  My children, bless their tiny, chaos-loving souls, had made a pot of coffee yesterday afternoon…and not only neglected to share that they’d used the last filter, but also went ahead and put the empty box back on the shelf.

You see, I’m past all that denial nonsense.  I know I have a problem.  Coffee doesn’t give me the jitters, or have any noticeable effect on my energy levels.  It isn’t something I do in the morning because it’s a nice, relaxing ritual.  Most mornings, I am fighting off tiny beings with varying levels of actual need, just to take a few delicious sips.  But if there is no coffee, I get a little anxious.  Okay, a lot anxious.  I spend entirely too much time, when we are going somewhere, wondering how and where I will get my next fix.  I believe water was created as a vehicle for coffee.  So now what?

Coffee does not enhance my writing process–it is my writing process.  And, more notably, perhaps, it is my favorite non-sentient thing in all the world.  If there is a coffee in my hands, iced, hot, espresso, doesn’t matter…I can just tell that everything will be all right.

I had to think quick.  I remembered our emergency box of dried goods in the basement, which had sat untouched for, oh, a decade or so.  I remembered that, of course, coffee was a vital component of any good emergency kit.  I pulled it out, rummaging through until at last I found it:  A ten pack of vital, life-giving instant hazelnut coffee packets.

“Oh, cute!  Can I try?” my daughter squealed in delight.

“Um, no, you most certainly may not,” I responded, with a wild glint in my eye and a cold, heartless tone in my voice.

Was it delicious?  Not really.  Did it sooth my psychological needs long enough for me to get dressed and head to the store for filters?  Yep.

I’m so glad that no one is writing a book about me.  Remember when I talked about the importance of a character’s drive?  I think the amount of coffee drinking scenes in that book would make for a boring read.  Some things just don’t translate, you know?

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