I’m out of half and half, but I NEED caffeine and so I’m taking my coffee black this morning. Throwing it over ice cuts the bitterness and I can gulp it down to free my sleep-adled brain.

One sip of black iced coffee brings back a hundred and one snapshots and then my brain is off and running; curse my memory that can never remember where I left my keys, but that remembers every cup of black coffee.

It was the spring I was twenty and I wasn’t sleeping much anyway. I wasn’t doing much homework either. Lukewarm black coffee in a small Dunkin Donuts cup, in the hallway at the top of steps of Hickory A, the night before the APD final, and it was Mother’s Day, because my mom had lectured me because I was giving up my D.C. Internship, but I didn’t care because in those days, nothing mattered, nothing but “this.”  

Black coffee and a corn muffin, playing Dar William’s “End of Summer” CD on the quick trips I used to make for what would stand in for breakfast/lunch/dinner before Comparative Politics.

Iced black coffee, but from the Dunkin Donuts up 29, on one of those fabulous days that I’ve referenced a thousand times. For the entire summer afterwards, until I quit drinking it, black coffee brought me back to that afternoon.

But not the mornings, like this morning, when I couldn’t seem to get myself out of the house to be productive before class, and I would sit there writing instead, no; those mornings were French Toast Coffee.

And French Toast Coffee is a whole ‘nother set of memories.

And reading that, I realize; I got another audience after that, but now that audience is on its way out. So I’ll probably be writing less (this used to be unconscious, breaks in writing) which will relieve my friends-list of my over-analytical and angst-ridden entries, which I’m sure are no less annoying then my “omg, I-am-so-happy-and-my-life-is-perfect” entries. I am mostly kidding, but I do have trouble writing when my life, and my audience, are in flux

I do feel better today, but also worse, because I feel trapped in my fifteen year old self. At least I am self-aware, which in my book, should make it more forgivable, but I am also having to work hard to convince myself I am not being harshly judged. And since sitting here writing in LiveJournal is really not helping my case any, I’m going to get dressed and do something less emo.