Where: my kitchen, Orono, ME
When: 7 am, Jan 15, 2005
Who: just me
Coffee: Maine Roasters French Roast
I push the plunger down on the French press and I think of Trainspotting and Requiem for a Dream. I am very fortunate in that these movies (and the music of the Velvet Underground) are as close as I've ever come to real addiction. I know I'm addicted to coffee, but the consequences of that addiction are miniscule to a heroin addiction. Sometimes I wish I could be a recovered addict, just so I'd have that life perspective, but the price is just too great. This morning, though, is one of those mornings that makes me aware of my own small addiction. I don't want this cup of coffee. We're having a cold snap and it is bleak and gray outside, and I just want to be back in bed, lying under the covers. I am sick, tired, and headachey, and I know the coffee is going to taste like crap because of my head cold, no matter how good it actually is. I know if I don't drink it my headache is going to get worse and I'll stay muddled and confused as if I'd never woken up properly, and I'll be cranky and horrible to be around. So I push the plunger down and give thanks to whatever fates/good sense prevented me from ever letting this be a real syringe.