I hear my drink called out. When I see it, I think they are playing a joke. An elf would feel like an ogre drinking from this cup.

In the glory of a hangover, my alarm clock blasts me from my alcohol-induced coma.

My body spasmodically jerks from under the covers. The wailing of the alarm clock increases with each beep.

Attempting to crush the plastic menace, I slam my fist onto it. Apparently, I’m still drunk. The floor plays tricks on me, swaying left to right like a boat in choppy water.

Seeing clothes strewn about the room, I try to piece together the puzzle of last night’s memories. Images of a scuba diver, talking flower, slightly ornery Abraham Lincoln and a gallon of Carlo Rossi dance through my head.

With class approaching in an hour, a brain-ache, and feeling like there’s a goblin in my stomach, I’m forced to one horrible conclusion: I need coffee.

Merely thinking it causes my heart rate to skyrocket. In my 22 years of existence, I have avoided coffee — and its associates — as well as caffeine squalors also known as cafés. The main reason is that it’s a world in which I don’t belong. Days like today leave me no option but to seek out the mythical elixir to my ailment.

What should I wear? Men wearing scarves and Emo glasses while writing poetry with furrowed brows comes to mind. Would they toss me out on the street if I showed up in sweatpants and reeking of booze? I suppose I’ll find out.

As I approach the coffee shop, I can hear the siren song of the cappuccino machine. I take in my last breath of air as a non-coffee drinker and enter the shop.

Strange aromas swallow me into their indistinguishable belly. Being face to face with odors I’ve only smelt in passing causes slight dread. I step in line trying to listen to the foreign language caffeine professionals use to haggle. It all sounds like gibberish — one long word like, “Mochacappucespressinoachaifrappachoca.”

Suddenly I’m face to face with the beast — the vendor. My jaw quivers as I try to regurgitate something I heard while waiting. All that comes out is, “Ess, Ess, Capp, uh, um, I, uh.”

The seasoned dealer can smell my inexperience. She takes pleasure in my floundering like a fish out of water. My eyes dart frantically across the seemingly billboard-sized menus. Discernable words finally leap out: “Double Chocolate Espresso.”

After paying, I take a seat and wait. I lay my head down in vein hopes ease the throbbing in my head. I lift my head and slowly realize everyone in the shop shares my haggard appearance. Where are the men with scarves, or the poets? Checking my watch I see it is nine in the morning, a little early for Whitman hopefuls.

I hear my drink called out. When I see it, I think they are playing a joke. An elf would feel like an ogre drinking from this cup. Grabbing my diminutive boost, I sit down. There is a chocolate bean with a spoon on the saucer. I plop in the chocolate and use the spoon to sip the espresso. This draws laughter from the employees behind the counter.

At first I questioned how the chemical-tasting substance could do me any good. My skepticism is put to rest moments later, when I couldn’t stop tapping my foot. Suddenly I feel like Popeye after he has downed a can of spinach. Despite the fact that my shaking rivals a Parkinson’s sufferer, I feel superhuman.

Possessed by the coffee shop spirits, I pull out some homework and give it the business. Perhaps, it’s a placebo effect, but I did five Tylers worth of homework in one sitting.

I stop for a moment and understand that I’ve just popped my bean.

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