Coffee should be black as hell, strong as death, and sweet as love
At Starbucks, it’s a skinny vanilla latte (unless it’s fall, in which case it’s a chestnut praline latte, or a skinny peppermint mocha at Christmastime).
At Zoe’s, our local coffeehouse where I spent so much time that occasionally I got free coffee, it’s a dirty chai latte (two shots of espresso if I’m having a rough day).
At the coffee cart in the Hospitality Business Management building, it’s a hazelnut lavender latte (trust me, it’s divine).
At the shop downstairs in the student union, it’s a Thin Mint Mocha (or a London Fog if I’ve been stressing out and my stomach is in knots).
And at home, it’s my just-right combination of Italian Sweet Creme and Gevalia dark roast in one of my mugs from England or New Orleans or Chicago or wherever.
I love my coffee. I’m definitely addicted – I get withdrawal headaches, not to mention extremely irritable and rather fatigued, whenever I accidentally decrease my intake. And I know I probably spend too much on it – I attained Gold Status in my Starbucks membership without even trying. The Engineer doesn’t even drink coffee, nor does he know most of my drink orders at any of the above places (which isn’t his fault, since if I’m in the mood where I need coffee now I’m probably being rather antisocial).
But I figure there are worse things I could be addicted to. And besides the energy boost, it’s kind of a security blanket. When everything in my day is going wrong, or I need the mental fortitude to face a scary Monday, one sip of coffee comforts everything. As I told my counselor a few semesters ago, no matter what else happens, nothing can ruin coffee. It’s happiness in a mug.