In general, I am a two times a day coffee drinker. Two cups in the morning, immediately upon waking, before I have the chance to get annoyed for absolutely no reason and attempt to take off someone’s head with a potato peeler, and once in the afternoon, when the jonesing starts and I feel desperate for a fix. I have tried, and succeeded in, cutting back on my coffee intake before, limiting myself to morning coffee only. But it only lasts a short time and then I jump back off the wagon.

And I’ve figured out what it is. Pregnant women crave crazy-ass stuff like pickles and peanut butter. PMS-ing women crave chocolate. (Yes, people, I’m generalizing here… just go with it.) The women of my family crave coffee. It’s an entirely DNA-based hormonal thing, a need that will cause physical weakness and emotional anguish if it goes unfulfilled. I know this, and do not fight it.

However, even I must admit when it’s gone too far. Like, every time I have watched my mom or my sister drink the rough equivalent of three 12-cup pots of coffee all by themselves in a day, I’ve thought, “Well, at least I’m not a total addict.”

Or so I thought. The past two days have made me wonder if perhaps I am at the tiptop of a dangerous, downward spiral.

Last night, I had an extra two-cup coffee session. At eleven-thirty at night. Don’t worry. I went to bed immediately after. And, not five minutes ago, I sat here drinking coffee and eating coffee ice cream at the same time. I’m not going to lie. It looks, sounds, smells, walks, talks, and feels like addiction.

Lucky for me, it tastes like coffee.