Coffee Girl
I believe in coffee. It goes with everything; the busiest days, the laziest, every book, newspaper, chat, and every mood. I believe in coffee as a form of survival. To wake me up each morning, to keep me going mid afternoon. It can comfort you, energize you and inspire you. I believe in coffee.
I used to hate it. My Dad was the only one in our home that would drink it. He wakes up at 5 AM everyday, whether its Monday or Saturday, and pours the strong, hot brew right down his throat. He’d come home from work late still smelling of the same brew. It clung to him like smokers and their nicotine scent. I used to hate the smell, and now it clings to me, I don’t even notice it any more.
I don’t just believe in coffee I depend on it. …show more content…
Instead of drinking from those, strong, heavy, large mugs, Dad always picks from the ones that I have given him over the years. Cheap mugs from gift shops in New York, Quebec and Mexico, mugs that I painted as part of pottery lessons in middle school. I always opt for the nice, expensive mugs whenever I’m home.
On the weekends when Dad was home, the house smelled like coffee and I loved it. If I woke up to the sound of the coffee bean grinder, early on a Saturday morning, I knew it was going to be a good weekend.
During the week, when I was in high school, I would walk to Tim Hortons, the Canadian favourite coffee shop, with my friends during our break. The coffee isn’t as good as Dad’s, but it was all we had. I didn’t live in a province polluted by Starbucks, I had to settle for Tim’s cheaper brew. I would buy two coffees, one for while we sat there chatting, and one for the walk back to school, which took about ten minutes. That left me with enough to sip during the next class.
I ordered my coffee black and forced myself to drink it. I didn’t like it but didn’t want to think about the extra calories of their cream and sugars, they didn’t specialize in skinny …show more content…
I knew he could afford it, cups of coffee everyday, but I still felt bad. He came from a good family, and started his own work, selling other students things stronger than caffeine. He wasn’t a bad person, he was a good guy stuck in a bad, boring situation. Like I was a good girl stuck in the same problem.
When we had free period, and when it was nice outside, we would walk down to the lake, which was behind the trees across from our school. There was a small wooden dock off the pathway where we would lay out in the sun and sip our coffee. He was a Double Double person and I was okay with that.
We were surrounded by water and trees, peaceful privacy; a complete contrast to the school grounds, sidewalks, and shops surrounding the area, all of which were polluted by loud, aggressive teenagers. Some days, we would follow the crowd, go with our friends but it wasn’t the same. And Ben would always get pulled away by surprising people asking for
I believe in coffee. It goes with everything; the busiest days, the laziest, every book, newspaper, chat, and every mood. I believe in coffee as a form of survival. To wake me up each morning, to keep me going mid afternoon. It can comfort you, energize you and inspire you. I believe in coffee.
I used to hate it. My Dad was the only one in our home that would drink it. He wakes up at 5 AM everyday, whether its Monday or Saturday, and pours the strong, hot brew right down his throat. He’d come home from work late still smelling of the same brew. It clung to him like smokers and their nicotine scent. I used to hate the smell, and now it clings to me, I don’t even notice it any more.
I don’t just believe in coffee I depend on it. …show more content…
Instead of drinking from those, strong, heavy, large mugs, Dad always picks from the ones that I have given him over the years. Cheap mugs from gift shops in New York, Quebec and Mexico, mugs that I painted as part of pottery lessons in middle school. I always opt for the nice, expensive mugs whenever I’m home.
On the weekends when Dad was home, the house smelled like coffee and I loved it. If I woke up to the sound of the coffee bean grinder, early on a Saturday morning, I knew it was going to be a good weekend.
During the week, when I was in high school, I would walk to Tim Hortons, the Canadian favourite coffee shop, with my friends during our break. The coffee isn’t as good as Dad’s, but it was all we had. I didn’t live in a province polluted by Starbucks, I had to settle for Tim’s cheaper brew. I would buy two coffees, one for while we sat there chatting, and one for the walk back to school, which took about ten minutes. That left me with enough to sip during the next class.
I ordered my coffee black and forced myself to drink it. I didn’t like it but didn’t want to think about the extra calories of their cream and sugars, they didn’t specialize in skinny …show more content…
I knew he could afford it, cups of coffee everyday, but I still felt bad. He came from a good family, and started his own work, selling other students things stronger than caffeine. He wasn’t a bad person, he was a good guy stuck in a bad, boring situation. Like I was a good girl stuck in the same problem.
When we had free period, and when it was nice outside, we would walk down to the lake, which was behind the trees across from our school. There was a small wooden dock off the pathway where we would lay out in the sun and sip our coffee. He was a Double Double person and I was okay with that.
We were surrounded by water and trees, peaceful privacy; a complete contrast to the school grounds, sidewalks, and shops surrounding the area, all of which were polluted by loud, aggressive teenagers. Some days, we would follow the crowd, go with our friends but it wasn’t the same. And Ben would always get pulled away by surprising people asking for