Coffee, I love you.

I really, truly do. So much that it burns. Literally. Yesterday I spilled a steaming French roast on my whitest, most functional work shirt and created a fashion breakdown in Tuesday's wardrobe. Now the rest of my week is off kilter. Can't you see the sacrifices I make so we can be together?

This morning I noticed the dashboard in my car is covered with a sticky, brown film from various coffee drinks splashing all over the place while I'm driving to work. It's all I can do to pull myself away from the car without the big, brown coffee blob sucking me back in.

That, and you're abusive. Is it really necessary to go on about the burns on my thumb and index finger from my cup spilling over? Do I dare mention the tarnished, sepia stains on my teeth, or the considerable expense of whitening treatments? Why, those crest strips alone run a deficit in my beauty budget.

Coffee, can't you see you're damaging my reputation? You make me late for work. You keep me up late at night. I can't hardly leave the house without you.

If I don't have you at the precise moment you're ready, you go cold on me. Yet I'm still addicted. It only makes me want you more.

I thought I had finally drawn the last stirrer today, when my grande cafe mocha spilled all over my desk and wiped out my notes, post its, and phone numbers. You leaked into my phone and quietly invaded my ipod. I swear, if I weren't so dependent on you, I'd have sufficient grounds to call it quits. It would be over. Juan Valdez and you and I would be through.

Coffee, I love you, but you're ruining my life.