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.
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