coffee and other addictions.

hola.

Part one:

So. I am giving up coffee. This is why:

1. I am addicted to it and i hate being addicted to anything. Free will exists for a reason. or something.
2. My friend Kate is doing a mega detox and if she can kick alcohol, sugar and all things lovely, then surely i can give up coffee.
3. it is expensive. i spend at least $25 a week on the stuff. that is ridiculous. The problem is i only drink organic coffee (because i am a wanker) and it has to be fair trade (again, wanker) and it also has to be quite large.
4. I didn't feel like one this morning so it seems like a good place to start.

Part two;

I have a new resolve to become a better individual in general. This includes doing all my essays in a timely fashion, working hard at work, exercising every single day, documenting said exercise in this blog so as to remain accountable, drinking 3 times more water than i usually drink, not leaving washing in the washing machine for a week, eating things other than the things cooked in restaurants and getting more organised in general.

Part three: a sample from a short story i am submitting to be published. It is called Blueprint.

As time goes on, Girl starts writing her own stories, one by one, until the day, when she is

no longer a girl, she meets a man. He has green eyes and is quick to smile at almost

anything. They talk endlessly about love and life, truth and beauty.

He asks if he can give her his phone number.

And of course there is nothing to write it on, and of course he pulls a copy of Love in the

Time of Cholera from his back pack and of course he tears out the last page, scribbles in

lilac pen and holds it out to her.

And she has already read this story and reread it and reread it and even though she knows

all about how it ends, the grief, the pain, the romance, the misery, she still takes the page

and tucks it up her sleeve. There’s no room for will she won’t she second guesses. She

kisses him.

Years later, the man finds a piece of paper in the back pocket of some old

jeans. The creases are soft from so much folding, the ink a faded purple. Right

there, right underneath a series of numbers is a jumble of words, a

mishmash of letters. He holds it up into the sunlight to see if he can

make out what it says. Somewhere in there he reads “regret” and the word

“sorry” repeated again and again. Then side by side, in a perfect line he finally

finds the words he has been looking for.


Part four:

I really want a coffee.