Beverage Enjoyer
I have been in a constant state of misery since September 23, 2022, after the innocent newness of Fall Quarter ceased to appeal to me and I was overwhelmed by the crushing reality of being a university student. I no longer feel joy when I go outside, when I lie in the grass, or when I see friends or stray crows hopping along the ground. I no longer know peace at sunrise. I cannot sleep at night, as I am haunted by the whispers of the devil that remind me I have two exams tomorrow. There is but one thing that brings me happiness in this vile, vile world: a tasty beverage.
The one thing keeping me from complete insanity is a cold brew with vanilla cream. I want to kiss the inventor of the iced white mocha. I will marry the tea latte, and I will commit adultery with a mango black tea (boba included, 75% sugar). They are sweeter than the touch of a lover, and oh-so accessible in my moments of weakness.
I have tricked myself into studying with self-bribery, whereby iced coffee is my reward for doing the bare minimum. If I go to class? I’ll get coffee as a treat. If I finish an assignment? Sounds like a great time for boba. If it’s the weekend? It’s a beautiful day — so I will celebrate with the largest beverage I can buy. It is a beautiful parasitic relationship between me and the coffee beans, whereby I consume them and they nourish me emotionally and spiritually.
I am not deterred by the cost — $5 is a nominal fee to improve my mood, to remember that there is a life beyond the confines of York Hall, even if it only stretches as far as Art of Espresso. Indeed, $5 is so trivial — so why not have two beverages, or perhaps even three? We all need some enrichment, some little, tiny, minuscule joys. It’s self-care.
But there are too many horrors this quarter! I can no longer rely on the gentle healing of apple juice or the subtlety of a vanilla latte. I must go deeper. If it has fewer than four shots of espresso, it will not be enough. I will have to upgrade to a big drink. A large drink. A ginormous drink, even — I will need it. After all, there is no other hope. It’s me and three humongous drinks — cradled lovingly in my arms — against the world and its army of 13 midterms. And, as my hands shake and I once again stay up until sunrise, I will walk to Starbucks and return with a trenta Pink Drink in hopes that the torment will end and I will finally be free.
