First loves are generally reserved for people, but no. Not this time.

It is my first thought when the alarm is blaring at unholy hours. I bargain with myself, “If you get up and put pants on, you can have the coffee." He calls to me from his canister, waiting to be brewed into the elixir of life. He does not fail me; he does his job well.

I stare through squinted eyes in the dark trying to measure scoops, but both coffee and me know it doesn’t matter. Just follow the simple formula: coffee grounds +filter + water = the life force. Details are too much and coffee knows it.

Credit: astrologyy-gifs.tumblr.com

The first sip of him leaves my heart happy, my soul warm, and the tips of my toes tingly. Hope is restored that the day will not kill me because I am becoming steadied by your strong caffeinated nature.

If I couldn’t find a mug, I’d just put sugar and milk in the pot and stick a straw in the spout.

Halfway through the cup, I can tolerate light and some sounds. You have given me this gift, my dearest coffee. I can now begin to think about getting motivated for my day; not yet, but I’m getting there. My transformation from demonic morning troll to tolerable grump is underway. I can even focus enough to put my eyeliner on. Progress.

(Demonic Morning Troll: AKA Gremlin) Credit: ghostofcheney.tumblr.com

When the first vat is consumed, I pour a second. One for the road – but it’s gone before I even get wherever I’m going. French Vanilla heaven has kept me alert though, and one less wreck has been caused by me (there have been a few…).

I am not the only addict. We walk the same streets as you, sit next to you, and dine in the same restaurants as you; you are just unaware of our weekly undercover meetings in the super-secret Starbucks at Middle Earth.

If you are one of us, I’ll see you next week.

P.S Great mugs are more like small bowls with handles