The coffee kettle goes off in the kitchen and she stumbles over to make a mug. She needs her morning caffeine kick before she can bother with anything else. It has been a ritual - in the corners of her head she knows addiction is more the word, since she was in the ninth grade; that was the first time she was allowed to drink as much coffee as she wanted. She also has a favourite mug. When she is at home, she can’t have her coffee in any other mug. Any other mug and her mind starts playing tricks on her. Too much sugar. Too milky. Not enough coffee. Too cold. And once that stream of thought erupts, her day, predictably, goes rolling down the hill at an excruciatingly slow pace. Of course she will be the first to admit that a perfect cup of coffee doesn’t mean the perfect day. Hell no. But good coffee in the morning helps her get through the day knowing not everything in her long tiring day is going to be crap. And at night she can reflect on the day and say, well at least the coffee was good. It’s her way of dealing with things. She adds her one cube of sugar; it tinkles against the cold walls of the mug before crashing into the bottom. A little bit of milk goes in, leaving a sloppy white trail at the side. She rummages for a spoon. When she finds one, she shoves it into the dark brown jar; the force of it expels a small coffee cloud above the jar. Three spoons of coffee and some boiling water, and there it is. The aroma of fresh coffee fills up her mood. She takes a sip and as the bitter warmth rushes down her throat, a small content voice in her head asks, how bad can it get?