Addict.

Should I ever be cut open (read: freak wind sailing accident or 2nd C-section, whichever is more likely at this point), I'm relatively certain the doctors will find coffee (and wine) flowing freely through my veins.

At what point do I admit that it's a sickness? When I have a club card that gets me 10% off? When the baristas (from three different locations) know me by first name? When I don't even have to place an order because they already know what I want? Or when I get a GOLD members card in the mail WITH MY NAME ON IT?

That's right. GOLD. VIP. PERSONALIZED. Boo-ya. The only thing missing from the pomp and circumstance of it all was being hand delivered by a singing telegram boy wearing a latte costume.

This has to be what Kim Kardashian felt like when she got her Amex Black Card in the mail.