Hi, My Name is Fookers and I'm a Crackwhore

I doubt that any of us realize that we're addicted to something before it's taken away. We simply love these things. We may "have to have it," but we're not addicted. We can stop anytime we want to.

It was upon moving to West Virginia that I discovered that, yes, I am an addict.

You see, there are very, very few Starbucks in WV. So few, in fact, that one must drive around two hours to find one from my present location.

And I have. Admitting you have a problem is the first step, right?

The first day wasn't so bad. Hell, the first three days were bearable. It was only that forth day, when I found myself irritable and shaky, that I realized something was wrong with me. It was only the teeth-grinding that clued me in.

I was addicted to Starbucks coffee. I was withdrawing from my Iced Venti non-fat no-whip White Mochas. My caramel Frappicinos. My Iced Vanilla Lattes. And even those little fucking scones. Damn those scones. There's a dimple on my ass for every scone I've ever had. I've apparently had enough scones to make me resemble an enlarged golf ball.

By the end of the week, I was scouring the Wal-Mart looking for alternatives (hey, this is WV, there ain't no Harris Teeter round these here parts). The little bottles of faux Frap and stale bags of coffee were pale alternatives. I finally settled on some mocha smoothie crap which I've proceded to guzzle like a marathon runner with a checkpoint Gatorade. It's not that great; it's NOTHING compared to the original. But it's kind of like methadone for a heroin addict. It's not the same, but it's better than nothing, right?

Apparently, a relapse is far more horrible. I went home for a visit a few months ago. I knew I was going to do it again before I ever left. In fact, I lost an hour of travel at the first major city searching for that place. I'm not kidding, it was like I was a Muslim who'd finally made the pilgramage to Mecca. I was practically bouncing while standing in line. By the time I made it home, I proceded to imbibe so much Starbucks that I was on a caffeine high for the entire trip.

Not helping the fact is my friend, who works for Starbucks and was always glad to offer a freebie. Especially if I watch her hellspawn for a lil while. I should have realized that when I'll willingly babysit, it's obvious that I have a serious problem.

She is the one who informed me that the coffee is, in fact, laced with crack. Hey, at least it finally makes sense. How the hell else can coffee cost five bucks a cup? Columbia's killing two birds with one stone. They're unloading the beans and the blow at once, and that's just brilliant.

Needless to say, when I found out the other day that she was fired, I was heartbroken. My habit at its peak was probably the equivalent of a quarter of my income. What financial advisors tell you to invest in real estate, I invest in espresso. The only thing that saved my finances on any level were the freebies. Having a friend who works at Starbucks is the equivalent of screwing your dealer. Everybody wins.

So now, I face a dilemma. I move back in about a month. I realize that if I don't get a handle on this, I'm going to end up on the street shaking a little cup and praying I can come up with $4.88 by the end of the day.

I'd better start reciting the Serenity Prayer, because right now, all I want is a fix.