[written a few weeks ago]
|Photo via Pinterest|
I’ve tried to be a coffee lover. I really have.
I dream of being a writer. Coffee comes with the territory, right?
My mum is a coffee-lover. My husband is a coffee-lover. All of my close friends.
I’ve tried, I tell you.
Deacon has been dying for a coffee maker, so we finally broke down and bought one. It came this morning. When I got home, I had him make me a cup.
It tasted pretty good. At first. And I’m proud to say that I finished the entire cup without assistance.
But there was a distinct aftertaste, one that was familiar to me. And then I realized that it tasted exactly like the aftertaste of vomit.
I pushed that out of my mind. Went on with my business.
I went to a meeting for an organization I’m in on campus. And my stomach increasingly grew sick as it went on.
And I’ve come to the conclusion that I am not a coffee drinker. I do not like the taste of it. My body revolts against its presence. No matter how much sugar or creamer or different flavors I try, it is always the same.
So I’m embracing the fact. I will not make myself sick any longer trying to fit into some kind of persona or stereotype that I see myself fitting into. I hate coffee, and I’m saying it loud.
currently listening to: Radioactive (cover) by Pentatonix