It is nine at night, and I am sitting here in pajamas, my lips curled around the rim of a tall coffee cup, the spoon still in it, taking in the deliciously hot beverage that I've come to love. The bitter sweetness draws me in every damn time, whether it's six thirty in the morning or, like now, nine at night. It's not even good coffee. Cheap store-brand crap that was on sale. But even with that, if you put just the right amount of sugar, milk, and a little powdered creamer in, you can make that crap that looks like mud into a smooth, creamy cup of something that you can curl your lips around.

And I wonder why I'm an addict.