Coffee: Maxwell House Drip, Office Coffee
I was at a red table in a kitchen drinking fizzy water. This was the early days of the Coffee Log. I was in a borrowed apartment, working on a borrowed laptop, writing like I’d borrowed time. I wanted to be done. I wanted that satisfaction of having accomplished something. I didn’t want the lead up, the struggle, the in-between. I took my daily quote off the water bottle because it was convenient. Look back far enough and you might find the day I’m talking about.
Tonight, I’m writing at my own desk that came with me from old days when I was living at home. Once, it belonged to my grandmother. She lived in our annex. She put her TV on it. I’d sit on the couch in her annex and watch NASCAR with her. Or, at nights, whenever it was on, my mom would come back and we’d all watch Diagnosis Murder. I thought Dick Van Dyke was hilarious. Anyway, when she passed, the desk went to no-one, the room had a sanctity, then the sanctity was gone and it went to my mother, then I fell on bad times for a few years and moved home and since then it’s been with me. It’s cheap, blonde, white legs, but it’s got a long heritage. Or at least, I think that’s how it happened. My memory’s fuzzy. I might be mixing up it up with another desk. But what’s important is that it’s mine.
It’s hard to get away from yourself. You trade spaces like passing notes in class but somehow the notes always end up back with you.
Tonight, I’m drinking another fizzy water.
Currently Reading: NOTHING! Couldn’t get back into Bourdain, no matter how much I tried; will pick a new book soon
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