Written last monday-

It's Monday and I go into work, so out of it that I need to drink a huge cup of coffee just to reach tired. Get to my computer and reach into my backpack to plug in my CD player. I notice that while I brought the CD player, even some CD's, but I somehow forgot to bring the headphones. That means an entire day at work without music. No Howard Stern, No NPR, no music- just me, the data and the sound of me type, type typing away. There is no way to accurately describe the boredom that I'm about to endure.

Go get some coffee. Pour the pot into my mug but only a few drops come out. The pot is empty. Damnit, the old "leave only a few drops left so somebody else has to make the coffee" trick. Bastards. That's my trick. In the throes of my caffeine addiction, I take it upon myself to make the coffee. Take out the old filter and throw it out, then put in a new folder. I go look for the coffee to put in the coffee maker, but realize that there's no coffee left. Not a bean, not a crumb. I don't know where to go to find the coffee.

I'm kind of stuck. I've already thrown out the filter and replaced it with a new one, so I'm passed the point of no return. If I was to bail now, it would be way too obvious that I had started and bailed. Can't do that. But I don't know where the coffee is and there's nobody I could ask to help me out. The receptionist isn't around and the only one who's nearby is the Women Who Always Wears Shirts Way Too Tight (and they were awfully tight today), but she was on a call. I'm on my own.

I go looking through the cabinets. Every one in the kitchen area. Can't find anything. Don't know where it could be. I do, however, find some International Blend Coffee, Vanilla Flavor. What the hell, it's coffee. It's got caffeine in it and what else matters? So I decide I'm gonna brew up some Vanilla International Blend Coffee.

New problem. It's some funky coffee maker and it's not the usual coffee can, so I don't know the measurements. Don't know how much coffee to add, don't know how much water to add. So I wing it. Add a dash of the Vanilla International Blend Coffee and a whole bit of water. Once it's done, I make a silent prayer that it'll all come out and go back to my desk.

I sit there and type away. Clack, clack, clackity clack. And as I sit there, typing, I get worried that something's gonna happen. I can hear the coffee maker gurgling away, like Poe's Tell-Tale heart, making more noise than usual. I wait for something to explode. Or, even worse, the coffee will come out without causing a mess, but the coffee will be so bad that there'll be a progression of people pouring themselves a cup and spitting it out once they taste the awful concoction I made. I can hear the complaining and bitching already. "God, who the hell made this crap," they'll say, "this is the worst tasting coffee I've ever tasted." And I'll have to hear it. Because I don't have headphones, I hear everything. I can't tune everything out and become oblivious to the office around me.

I wait. Five minutes, then ten minutes. Finally, I decide it's about ready and decide to go take a taste for myself. Want to see just how dreadful a brew I made. Besides, if I'm the first one there and it's truly awful, I'll just get rid of it, destroy the evidence. None will be the wiser. I pour myself a cup. It's actually not bad. It's really, really sweet, like a Mocha, kind of, one with tons of sugar in it, but a well brewed mocha. It's not sludgey and it's not too watery. People won't mind would they? They'd be okay that the coffee's not totally black, right? Most of the office is women and women don't particularly like strong coffee, right? I decide to leave it be. Hoping it'll all work out right, I go back to my desk. If I hear anything, I'll just play dumb temp. Nope, it wasn't me. Didn't brew a thing.

Ten minutes later, I get up from my seat again to go to the bathroom. I notice, as I walk by, that the coffee pot is off the coffee maker, it's lid off and lying on the cabinet. Coffee stains are up and down the stem of the coffee maker. Someone was cleaning up the mess I made

Later that day, I hear someone talking to the receptionist. I hear him asking her something, about whether anyone knew who made something, but I can't make out what he was asking about. Even though I can't prove it, I'm pretty sure it was about my coffee. I'm never gonna make coffee there again.