Today I went down to the local qwikee-mart for a cup of sugar-infused, hyper-caffeinated bubbly.

As most of you know by now, I was looking for cappuccino. Cappuccino is the drink that you buy from a little machine in a gas station.

However, the chocolate kind that I usually buy was all gone, leaving me with hazlenut or vanilla. Hazlenut tastes terrible to me, but at least the vanilla is drinkable.

I learned all of this through trial and error. We didn't have cappuccino when I grew up as a boy, walking to school in the snow with no shoes on (up hill both ways).

We didn't have espresso either. I thought I had gotten ripped off the first time I tried it. The lady only gave me one-third of a cup. That was more than enough. Espresso is just coffee with the consistency of pine tar. One sip and the veins in my neck started to bulge and my temples were moving in an out. I found myself talking rapid-fire gibberish and looking at people with my eyes bugged out.

It was a frightening experience. Little did I know how easily one could become addicted.

It was almost like smoking cigarettes or watching television, or even better, smoking cigarettes while watching television.

I have heard that some have given up their family fortunes to walk the streets in search of just one more steaming cup of satisfyingly frothy brew, but I avoided that snare. Until I bought that cup today. Now I am going to have to start back on my recovery program, along with all that, "Hello, my name is Coby and I can't get enough cappuccino," stuff.

A few big gulps and I feel like a different man entirely, like I could flip over cars as I shake convulsively. Shaking convulsively in my job helps if you can learn to control the movements to simulate typing, however, caffeine shakes seem to make me feel more like running laps around the building. Flipping over cars will get you arrested, unless you live in Los Angeles, at which point you are forgiven for living with social injustice. As for running, with my present athletic awareness at a low only equalled by the turnout at the last primary election, it might not be a good plan.

I have been told that exercise is the best answer, but with a heart hammering out the beat to Golden Earring's "Radar Love" as you start to walk, it does tend to present a few problems. Not to mention the fact that I can't remember more than one or two lines to the song, so the beat is really a nuisance that reminds me of all my lyrical ineptitudes.

Then again, perhaps I can think of more of the words as I walk back from the local qwikee-mart with a big steaming cup of cappuccino.

I knew I could come up with a plan.

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