With a snap of the finger and a pour from my favorite mug—I let the last drops of my addiction slide down the sink. The part of me that lingered on to the deeply aromatic and carefully roasted coffee beans was waning. I decided to cut the dark and rich beverage out of my life. I would no longer let the slightly bitter drink affect my health. I now lean on the herbal essence of tea instead. However, I worried that I would lose my identity. No longer the coffee-addicted writer, I would have to fuel my fire with natural energy. Continue reading “The End of Coffee”→
I refuse to use the grey mug sitting in the corner of the room. I glance over in its direction and watch it staring at me with its handle pompously held out and elevated to resemble a dramatic stance from a person who has their hand on their hip. At first, I felt as though the very existence of this particular mug sitting on a ledge in my room was an attempt to mock my efforts to achieve set goals, but I am beginning to see the mug as a visual reminder and tangible motivator outside of completing my intended task of writing a book. I do not want to use my National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) mug until I finish writing the rest of my novel. Continue reading “The Unused Mug”→
“I have a London Fog with almond milk here on the bar.” The man behind the small coffee shop counter set down my reusable thermos filled with scalding tea and milk and smiled at me.
“Thanks,” I said adjusting my reading glasses and grabbing the cup. I brought the beverage over to the uncomfortable couch where I was sitting and placed the lid on top. I picked up my laptop and began typing up an article where I had left off.
It was part of my weekly routine. I would walk into the loud local coffee shop downtown and write for an hour or so after work before going home. It was the only way I would be sure that I got some writing in, and the only other opportunity where I could relax while eavesdropping on people. Continue reading “Taking The Leap”→
I tried to stifle a yawn as I moseyed over with the travel cup, that I brought from home, in-hand to the Keurig to make a cup of piping hot coffee. My short journey from my new desk to the tepid machine, who decided on its own who and at what time they would get their morning pick-me-up, became my mini-break among the busyness of event planning and building social media content online.
I ended up running into another co-worker by the Keurig in the kitchenette who was warming up a leftover snack in the microwave, which always strongly smelled like the thing the last person who used it put in to it. I greeted her with a familiar grin since she had sat right across from my desk when I was an intern on the other side of the office. Continue reading “The Adult At The Keurig”→
The cool breeze that subtly rustled through the tall palm trees on that Sunday morning greeted us as we made our way to the small restaurant. We had gotten up at a decent time to eat brunch and then spend the rest day together, but there was still a line waiting outside of the door with potential patrons holding white lettering printed on bright orange mugs filled with coffee.
Although the weather outside seemed a little gloomy, everyone seemed to be in an incredibly good mood. We put our names down on the waiting list and passed the next twenty minutes of time by taking a short stroll around the nearby shopping center.
We were seated somewhere in the middle of the breakfast/brunch establishment and our waitress immediately came over to ask us about our drink order.
I let the steaming hot java pour into my Beatles thermos, poured a little hazelnut creamer in to the black liquid, and capped it off with the thermos’ matching black top.
“You sure do drink a lot of coffee,” my sister said to me while watching me prepare my beverage in the kitchen from the living room.
I looked at her, “I maybe have a cup or two a day. No big deal.”
“I don’t think that’s a good thing,” my sister looked almost disgusted at my actions. “Everyone is so addicted to that stuff to where they have to have it everyday. You know it’s bad for you if you’re having headaches and getting cranky if you don’t have that daily dose of coffee.”
“Well, I’m not addicted to coffee. I can stop at any time.”
She felt the sharp sting of the hot handcrafted espresso beverage as it hit the tip of her tongue. The steamed soymilk foam did nothing to stop the boiling heat that had seeped like lava from the small to-go cup. She was sitting in the Barnes & Noble Starbucks café surrounded by dozens of magazine readers and students studying for tests, and she could do nothing but swallow the scalding drink as it engulfed her throat in flames while it traveled below, and continue typing on her brightly colored purple laptop.
Somewhere in between the stacks of popular dystopian settings of young adult novels lies the writer addicted to blogging for no one in particular. Occasionally, she looks for the thousand different words that are hidden within the pixels of Internet jpegs, and writes them down in posts to publish online. Continue reading “Coffee Shop Blogging”→
The warm steam emanating from the dark looking liquid sitting in my white mug gently finds its way to the surface of my face as I bring my nose to smell the coffee’s bold flavor.
I blow on the hot steam a little to cool the brew down a little and then take a sip of the richly roasted concoction with a little bit of added soy milk and sugar. The world around me becomes a thing of the past as the troubles of the day melt away with that first sip. Like clockwork, however, that moment begins to pass when I realize again that I have way too much work to do. Continue reading ““C” is for Coffee”→
I grabbed my favorite mug with John, Paul, George and Ringo’s silhouette famously strolling across Abbey Road and dumped two teaspoons of sugar at the bottom of its surface. I sat the jar of sugar down next to the full coffee pot and poured the dark liquid into the cup. As the steam grew from the mug I began to pour my tasty pumpkin spice creamer slightly off center into the cylindrical object. I watched as the loud of creamer billowed its way up from the bottom of the mug’s porcelain floor and, instead of grabbing a stirring spoon, I let the forceful movement of the cream mix its way around my hot cup of coffee.
The brilliantly bold and golden ball was streaming its warm rays of light directly into my face as I drove down the overcrowded highway. I had my sunglasses on, the car visor down and in place, and a strip of tint on the very top of my car’s windshield but I was still incredibly blinded by the Southern California sunset. I watched it weave in and out of the passing trees and peak out in-between Los Angeles’ city skyline as I cruised down the 101, and it was then on my way back to my uncle’s house sliding swiftly into the slowly setting summer sun that I realized that my situation was shifting.
The few weeks of my internship were intense for me, but they were both evolving into something that was entirely more doable than the nonstop orgy of stress and confusion. The first internship, which was closer to my uncle’s house, was getting back to its normal schedule, but I had never actually experienced it due to my starting a couple of weeks later than everyone else because I was still in school. I had also gotten to know a lot of the other employees at the second internship, which was located more in the middle of Los Angeles, and I was finally in a place where I didn’t feel like I was going to [kill anyone] or find myself in [the most awkward of situations]. I was getting more comfortable dealing with the traffic and all of the strange turning lanes and complicated stop lights and I found myself not getting lost as much when I tried to find the nearest Target. Continue reading “The Hollywood Intern: Part 5-Sitting There isn’t Free”→
