This morning I was scheduled for "fasting labs," which are the worst kind if you ask me. I awoke with a sense of dread, knowing I would be denied coffee for almost three hours -- until after I had my blood drawn. If I can just get a few sips of black coffee down my gullet, the day seems brighter. Until then a blanket of bleakness lays heavy upon my soul. After about 55 years of feeling this way, I finally had to see it for what it is: An addiction. My husband and son both suffer from this addiction as well, as did both my parents, making me wonder if it's a genetic thing.
I also wonder if we are entitled to any sort of special treatment because of it, as are so many other special interest groups. I'm thinking maybe a tag for my car that would allow me to park closer to coffee shops. And speaking of coffee shops, why not have a special line for us, like the PreCheck line at airport security, so we wouldn't have to wait for those non-addicts who get silly, recreational drinks like Cinnamon Cloud Machiattos or Blonde Vanilla Bean Coconut Lattes? Obviously our need is greater.
In fact, what are those people doing in a coffee shop? They should just go to an ice cream parlor and let us get our quick fix. After all, who are we hurting? Nobody, that's who. Eventually we could have separate bathrooms, for no damn good reason that I can see. You know, like the ones they have for the transgender/genderqueer people. As for my chosen pronoun, please call me "java."
In fact, what are those people doing in a coffee shop? They should just go to an ice cream parlor and let us get our quick fix. After all, who are we hurting? Nobody, that's who. Eventually we could have separate bathrooms, for no damn good reason that I can see. You know, like the ones they have for the transgender/genderqueer people. As for my chosen pronoun, please call me "java."
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