My productivity is only assured after cup after cup of tea, or coffee, or both. In Glasgow, I developed the habit of walking back and forth, between kitchen and bedroom, for tea refills; this repetitious behavior provided caffeination, a break from essay writing, light exercise and something warm to hold in my lap (weird, I know, but any bit of warmth to combat those chill winter winds of Scotland helps). Eventually, I began to think of caffeine as necessary – as something I could not live without. Today, life decided to test that theory.
My roommate has an electric kettle: a standard kitchen appliance in Britain but somewhat rare in the United States. The switch on it had been loose for the entirety of my time in Brooklyn. Today it finally snapped-off. I boiled the water on the stove instead. When I tried to pour the water into my roommate’s French Press, the beaker cracked. I procured a cup of coffee anyway and drank at the risk of drinking glass shards. Unfortunately, the effects of this coffee began to wear off, and I tried to make some tea with my roommate’s tea diffuser. The glass lid slipped out of my hand and exploded on the floor like some malicious domestic cluster bomb.
I am not happy. Neither is my roommate.