I believe coffee makes me a better person.
I wake up each morning, clad in eclectic ensembles of yoga pants and gruby undershirts. Sometimes my roots are covered in oil, bobby pins falling out from last night's bun. Other times it’s a crazy cloud of curls surrounding my makeupless face. No matter what my zombie like presence resembles as I stagger across the room to turn off my alarm, I know I have two choices. I can sit in the heatless, bright, horrible morning and begin to brace myself for the 18 hours to come. Or I can crawl back into my cocoon of pillows, all warm and safe. Slip back into my subconscious.
Usually I apply every single ounce of self control to making the mature decision. The decision to leave my throne of peace.
Then I find myself shivering in the quited house, slapping on war paint. I cover my pimples, and slap on some eyeliner. Then I coat my eyelashes in copious amounts of mascara, almost to the point where I’m just globbing it. I love mascara. Next I pick out my outfit. And if I was the responsible person my mother taught me to be, I would have it hanging on a hanger, ready to go. But no. Instead I stare at my closet for roughly five minutes, my brain clouded in sleep. After all, this is taking mental capacity.
After I have thrown on something because of my lack of time, I finally make it to the coffee. Warm, rich, flavorful bliss. And as I do whatever I must do while sipping calm, I transform from beast to beauty.