6 a.m.

My alarm goes off, waking me with a jolt. I groan, dragging myself out of bed and into the shower.

I slump downstairs, pack my lunch and finally: coffee.

Every day, I walk into school with a Starbucks vanilla latte in hand, no matter the weather. It could be raining cats and dogs or be as dry as the desert and I’d still have my coffee. Iced or hot, I can’t survive without my coffee in hand.

Coffee is my saving grace. It’s the only reason I don’t act like a zombie throughout the day.

–

After draining the final drops of my first coffee of the day, I purchase my second cup: either a white chocolate mocha or a Mayan mocha latte from the Java Cafe in the school library.

I know each of my local baristas by name, purely from the frequent interactions we have while I purchase my daily cup of joe. They remember me as that one coffee-holic white girl who stops by nearly every single day.

It’s a miracle that I find the funds to fuel my self-inflicted addiction.

–

Noon.

I’m already exhausted by the time second period rolls around, drained from the minuscule amount of rest I had the night before. Another cup of coffee keeps me alert, ensuring I don’t sleep during class.

After my second coffee, I’m practically bouncing off the walls, jittery and overflowing with energy.

–

5 p.m.

I arrive at home and drink yet another cup. Without enough coffee, I can’t stay awake long enough to do my piles of homework every night. I feel jumpy; the rush of caffeine in my body keeps me going.

–

6 a.m.

The cycle starts all over again.

My friends and family may say I’m addicted, but I don’t think that’s a fair judgment.

Despite all this, coffee isn’t my life; I am not defined by my caffeine addiction. I genuinely can survive a day without coffee.

I simply choose not to.