Drug addict and proud.

Some bitterness with nuttiness. A bit of smokey touch. Yes, I am a maniac, especially since I had vowed not to touch coffee, except on Mondays. Just as a consolation for the fact that the weekend is over.

The pain resulting from that British-like obstinacy, together with reason, eventually won over my chestpain-related hypochondria and I now allow myself one cup per day, Tuesday through Sunday. Monday is still that hog-wild escape into the addict's heaven.

Medium roast, just barely stimulating to the sides of the tongue. Dark roast, without sugar, just to show my taste pores that the drink means business. With milk and sugar. With sugar and without milk. Hiding under the two-inch foamy mound of cappuccino. Sometimes with dark chocolate. Sometimes without water, a single roasted bean ground up between my teeth. ``I think, therefore I am,'' somebody said. Once that roasty, refreshing aroma is reaching my nostrils together with the heat wave of the fresh-brewed cup, I know with greatest certainty that I am.