by Lashelle Johnson
I’m an addict.
It started slowly, as any addiction does. One shot as a pick-me-up or to make me feel better. One shot a day was all I needed. I knew it wasn’t the best thing for me but it wasn’t causing anyone else any harm. But sooner than I ever could have expected, I depended on my one shot a day. If I didn’t have it, I was a groggy mess. I couldn’t focus on simple tasks without it. It was a pricy habit but, hey, I needed it.
Soon, one shot a day just wasn’t enough. I needed a shot to keep me going, another shot to calm my nerves, another to help me think, another just to start my day and another to end it.
Then I built up a tolerance so I needed two to pick-me-up, then three to pick-me-up, then four. I haven’t gone past four yet. What would they think? Would they even think anything? Should they even think anything? I’m paying their bills and keeping their kids in college. They don’t have the right to judge me. I own them. Without me, they’re nothing.
So I just walk over and ask for the usual.
“A quad latte with extra foam, please.”
The man just smiles and nods as he goes to make my drink.