New Coffee Cup: Be Prepared World!
CUP O' DOOM:
Although easter is not a religious holiday for my family, I have been using my new present religiously. Boyfriend came home with this giant cup for me and my coffee. I was hoping that this would decrease the amount of daily coffee intake, but it seems to have only stabilized. I make less trips to the kitchen this way. I love its bottomless pink, flowery coffee chasm.
For syrups, I have hazelnut and vanilla, with occasionally chocolate syrup, Yoo-Hoo, or cinnamon in the mix. With my 25th birthday, and ensuing quarter-life crisis, approaching...I am planning on investing in a beautiful bottle of this:
Mixed with a locally brewed coffee (Sumatra as a personal favorite/dark roast), c'est magnifique! Especially, since Jameson is a French concoction.
"When it is at its best the coffee itself suggests intrigue, with its complexity, its weight without heaviness, and an acidity that resonates deep inside the heart of the coffee, enveloped in richness, rather than confronting the palate the moment we lift the cup." -Reference Guide for Gourmet Coffee.
Novel
The setting looks like a cross between the best of Hoarders in the backyard meets the woods in Red Riding Hood.
The opening chapter (rough draft--may contain typos):
Dylan
Judging the eloquence of her feet and legs, she should have been a dancer. Laken sinks languid into lukewarm bath water. Legs thrown over the sides of the tub, her unpainted toes seem to point accusingly out of the window.
“We need curtains,” Dylan surmises.
“We have a huge curtain. The woods,” she answers, resting her back against the tub. Her eyes are uneasy spectators but don’t focus on anything, other than the water.
“No, seriously…” His eyes linger on her glistening breasts, torso, and legs brushing against the clawfoot tub.
The smile is closed but there. “When I was little, Nana used to say, Never go into the woods alone, like a backwards Red Riding Hood story. She loved telling stories.”
The funeral for Laken’s grandmother was private. No coffin. Just ashes. Ashes now mixed in with roots of the plants in the haphazard garden of the backyard. Laken’s parents had died in a fatal car crash when she was just seven. With Dylan’s parents in the Midwest, the funeral had been small-a month ago-when the executer of her Nana’s will told them the deceased had left their budding family with $50,000 and the house. The house that Laken had grown up in, and her family four generations before her. Laken takes the death well enough, but silently. It unnerves him.
“I can get a job teaching with the doctorate at a community college. I did that until I got my practice,” he says. The practice that failed.
“Do you want to teach?” Dylan lets her question hang in the air. Water vapor.
“Regardless, we need the income, Laken. The money your grandmother left will only last so long. We used up our savings and maxed out our credit cards just coming here.”
“You regret it,” she says it simple.
Dylan’s stance, between the sink and open closet, shifts. “We didn’t have a choice as I see it. We needed a new start.”
Laken rinses the caked soap off of her arms and torso with slow scoops of water.
“And we do need curtains.”
“You think some pervert’s staring at me from the trees?” The smile is there, just once more.
“Yeah,” he says. His voice sounds ragged and dry even to his own ears.
“No, just you.” She’s always had a way of saying it simple. His laugh is earnest but too quick for his taste.
For the last 3 weeks of writing I have a grand total of 6 pages.
Daily Count: 3 Doom Cups = 6 Regular. Shit.
6 cups for 6 pages. Time to buckle down.
I shall be a mad writer! Be prepared world!