A look at the world through my eyes. Well, just part of the world.
Two weeks ago I hated the taste of coffee.
I always wished I would wake up one day and realize the bitter flavor and equally unpleasant aftertaste were suddenly more enjoyable. After all, being able to appreciate coffee is a gift.
My refusal to drink coffee has led to many an unintentional nap over the years. I spent countless early-morning high school French classes dozing to the lullaby of my teacher’s Parisian accent. Luckily, I didn’t develop neck pains from my constant inability to hold my own head up.
I obviously couldn’t survive college without daily doses of caffeine, so I’ve begrudgingly mastered the art of my own personal half-coffee, half-creamer brew from GW Deli.
But imagine my excitement when I ventured into Dunkin’ Donuts and had my first taste of what I’ve entered a beautiful relationship with: French vanilla iced coffee.
Okay, so it wasn’t my first taste ever. I just hadn’t had it in a while. But that doesn’t make it any less magical.
My world illuminated with possibility. I had discovered the secret to drinking coffee on a regular basis: Dunkin’ Donuts’ artificial blend. I doubt it’s made from real coffee beans but at this point I could give two shits.
Feeling pretty high on life – or sugar – I spent the following two weeks finding every possible excuse to buy another medium-sized iced coffee. I even purchased one before going to the mall with my mom when I was home in New Jersey one weekend. With the amount of time that woman can spend shopping, that wasn’t the most unreasonable decision.
It was only a matter of time before my newfound obsession got me into trouble. They say you should never have too much of a good thing. I guess I’m living proof.
I was at Gelman Library Wednesday night drinking my third iced coffee of the day when I descended into what I can only assume was an episode of severe caffeine and/or sugar overdose. In my state of panic, I experienced symptoms that may or may not have been produced by the delicious drink.
Symptom 1: Fidgeting. This was the first sign something was wrong.
Symptom 2: Thirst. Between the amount of coffee and subsequent bottles of water I chugged, I was forced to take a bathroom break after every two sentences I read from my textbook.
Symptom 3: Exaggerated levels of immaturity. I giggled each time my geology textbook mentioned an organism’s “hard parts.”
Symptom 4: A severe headache between my eyes. This was around the time I called my mom to give her the heads up that I might be dying.
Symptom 5: Hating everything and everyone. The ticket on my shirt was scratchy, someone nearby was tapping their foot loudly and I felt a pimple forming on my upper lip. Life is beautiful.
Symptom 6: Erratic moments of sexual arousal. Resisting the urge to dry hump, resisting the urge to dry hump.
Taking a break from my studying – if you could even call it that – I popped some Advil and rested my eyes. Within a half hour, I returned to my old self.
Looking back, it’s hard to say whether I felt physical symptoms that night or just a severe case of procrastination in the form of hypochondria. But relieved to have regained my focus, I sat down with a friend and delved back into the world of metamorphic rocks and Paleozoic vertebrates.
I got a good three minutes of studying in before my friend interrupted.
“Do you want the rest of my cappuccino?” he asked.
“Sure, why not?”