I’m a coffee addict and I’m not ashamed

It all started when I was 18 years old. Everyone was doing it. The first year of college had just begun – I wanted to keep up with the cool kids and their coffee drinking habits, and I wanted to give myself a good jolt in the morning after staying up late for no logical reason. The concept of caffeinating my brain became a constant in my life, a ritual, if you will. And I’ll be honest, I haven’t looked back since.

What I never expected was reaching a point when a single shot of espresso would cease to be adequate. I wanted more. I needed more. Give me a double, please. No, make that a triple. I was building up a tolerance, and it was happening faster than I ever thought possible. How could I still be tired after taking in those three little shots of concentrated caffeine? I could see the affects in my shaking hands, but the exhaustion was much stronger. It didn’t make any sense. My friends would tell me to lay off for a few days, that maybe that would help it start working for me again. Keep myself from enjoying the lovely smell and taste of my glorious coffee? Break the cycle? That sounds catastrophic. No thanks.

And here I am, almost 27, still hooked. Now, once or twice a day, I request a quad, four perfectly poured shots all to myself. The downside is that, even though that’s an absurd amount of caffeine, it doesn’t ever make me feel overwhelmingly awake. It simply helps me function. I refuse to let myself move up to five shots, though; therefore, the caffeine that does not give me much energy is better than no caffeine at all.

I have come to terms with the fact that I’m addicted to this stuff, and I won’t be quitting anytime soon.