My mother was a caffeine addict. I watched her breakdown on several occasions. I remember her balling on the streets of Jerusalem in front of our tour group and hundreds of other strange folk, pleading with our guide to find her some coffee.
At the King and Prince Hotel in Sea Island, Ga, while waiting for my mom to get the amount of coffee she needed, a man approached my dad and I and said, "You gotta watch this lady...she is a machine." There may have even be some pride mixed with the embarrassment that day.
I never liked coffee. Not coffee ice cream. Not tiramisu. When asked why I didn't drink coffee I would explain that I didn't like it and that my mom kinda traumatized me with her addiction.
My wife loves coffee. On our honeymoon in Italy, she drank as much as she could take while I stood and waited. My wife can dance and I cannot. One day I will fix that. I tried to learn to dance once and it was a painful failure. I knew that sharing in caffeine would be wonderful for us. So, despite my dislike of the taste and my crazy mother, I set out to become an addict.
I could say that I did it out of love, which is true, but that doesn't matter now. All that matters is that I have some coffee
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