As I clumsily attack the Bunn coffee maker without exception at the beginning of each and every day (I am sensitive to my sugar intake, but always promise tomorrow, I will cut back what I put in my coffee, and yet, tomorrow is like that hazy ocean beyond the horizon we will never see. I still spoon powdered chocolate into my coffee, and for gods' sakes, are there worst faults??), groggy from my nighttime medications that still have ahold on me (primarily the beast of clozapine), stiff and sore from being in a bed for twelve hours (thank you fibromyalgia), I dislike the idea of any company that requires mental and/or emotional stimulation--or a coherent, polite thought process. I'm too out of sorts--and God! I hate life.
It is usually about this time when my father walks through the room, having been awake since five am, says invariably, day after day, "Good morning." He always says it first when in company. He bursts with a strange energy that I cannot connect with. Doesn't he have a freakin' hang over?
I pour my mocha mix in and maybe some half-n-half (it's for baking) from the refrigerator if I'm feeling really fragile, looking both directions and around to make sure my mother doesn't witness my disgrace. I put the can of mocha mix away in a drawer in the kitchen. I sit and suffer through two giant cups of coffee. I need at least two. By then, Hope will start bugging me. The day begins.
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