I Periodically Need Coffee

Before I won at bingo, I was a lonely, lonely person.

Sure, I have a wonderful family, supportive friends, an incredible partner, etc. But that meant nothing. All I am to them is—or at least was—someone to make them laugh. Someone in high school once told me I should do stand-up. But who is going to do stand-up for me? They all tell me I’m like if Shakespeare was funny and also a girl. But no one wrote plays for Shakespeare. I am left laughless, as they all laugh it up at my goofs and bits.

But that was before I won at bingo.

It was science bingo. I was going with friends, but I am not a science student. I did not have high hopes. I sat sulking in front of my bingo board. I didn’t know any of these words. I am not smart, only very funny. And yet, by some luck, I won. I shouted bingo. The whole room turned to me, which I am used to because—we’ve been over this—I’m just so funny. I had won a cup, seemingly the least exciting item they had that night. But I was wrong. I slowly walked down the aisle to my prize. It was black with white writing, and yet it was still too far for me to read it.

My feet planted themselves in front of the shelf where my prize sat, waiting for me to bask in its glory. I turned the cup to read it better. 

“I Periodically Need Caffeine”

The last word was spelled out using different elements from the periodic table and below it was the atomic structure for caffeine. I lifted it up, a smile growing across my mouth which had fallen open upon reading the cup. A ball of air rose from my stomach and out of my mouth, a small chuckle. I stared at it, unblinking.

For the first time in eons, I erupted with laughter.

The class amphitheater shook as I fell to the floor in a pile of laughter and tears of joy. Oh my God, it was amazing. “I Periodically Need Caffeine”. HAHA!!! A masterclass in comedic writing. I held the cup close to my chest, occasionally pulling it away to read it again, causing me to laugh harder. I could not stop.

The two people running the bingo slowly came to my side and helped me up. They guided me back to my seat, the one covering my eyes with her hand so I wouldn’t continue reading my new prize. Once back to my seat, my friend took my cup and placed it in her bag so I would not look at it for the rest of bingo night. I was hurt, but I kept glancing back towards her bag and giggling at the mere thought of my new cup.

Back at the apartment, my roommates all gathered in another bedroom to look at the cool lights one of them had won. I sat on my bed, holding my cup and laughing with glee. I was no longer lonely. Finally, the stars had aligned for me. My cup was made for me and I was made for it. We understood each other.

I brought it with me everywhere. It made itself home in the right-side pocket of my backpack. I had a different water bottle in my other pocket, as I refused to fill my prize with water or anything that would taint it. It wasn’t for drinking. It was a friend. I spent my mornings and nights laughing with it. I had never felt such glee. I spent all my free time with it and spent my classes with it resting in my hand. I refused to talk to anyone else, they were not what I needed. 

The cup was everything I wanted. The people around us were jealous. My friends stopped inviting me to things. My partner threatened to leave me. My mother staged an intervention because she was so worried for me. I did not see what there was to be worried about. I was happy for the first time ever and the people who “loved me” had finally shown their true colors. So, when you guys laugh, I am acceptable. But when I laugh, there’s a problem all of the sudden?? Yeah, some great friends and family you are.

They will never, ever, be as funny as my cup. 

I was driving my cup to Chuck E. Cheese one day. I had just gotten paid by the job I still managed to have and figured my cup could use a day out as thanks for all it has done for me. I had work I needed to do for classes, but my professors did not truly care about my happiness like my cup did. So, instead of doing classwork, I was behind the wheel going to Chuck E. Cheese. In the passenger’s seat sat my cup, all buckled up and ready for a fun day out with me and the big mouse. It loved skee-ball so much, so I knew what our first activity would be.

My phone began to vibrate. A call from my partner was coming through, presumably to end things with me because he was jealous of what me and my cup had. I turned to hand the phone to my cup, as to ask it to answer the call for me. I accidentally read it again.

“I Periodically Need Caffeine”

I began laughing again. Cackling and tearing up. Oh, it always knew what I needed. I was so overcome with laughter that I did not see my turn. All of the sudden, my car hit a tree and I blacked out.

I awoke to my ears ringing. I must had to have been thrown from the car, as my back rested on grass that poked my skin.  An EMT stood over me, seemingly waiting for me to regain consciousness. I couldn’t make out what he was saying for who knows how long. Once I finally could, my brain snapped back into place. A wave of panic washed over me. I shot up, my pain not registering from the newfound adrenaline that had taken the place of the blood in my veins.

“Where is it?”

My words came out of my mouth, not looking for an answer. I scrambled to the remains of my car, ignoring the pleas of the EMT to stay still. My vision tunneled as I limped over to the passenger’s side of my now totaled car. It wasn’t the car I cared about.

“Where is my cup?”

I pushed past the people who were there to look into the now shattered window of the now smushed passenger’s side.

My cup had been reduced to a flattened piece of metal. 

I fell to my knees as I wept. I screamed and cried as the EMTs heartlessly pulled me away from the scene. I used all of my strength to try and break from their grasp, but to no avail. My cup was dead and I had killed it. 

After my time in the hospital and repeated mental health screenings that they claimed were “because of my concussion”, (I had heard them talking about us. The relationship we had. They called us strange.) I was released. I had spent much of my time in the hospital planning a funeral.

A funeral where I was the only one to show up. 

After my cup was buried, I went to the reading of the will. Many would say that I was a gold digger, hoping my cup would have a large amount of money signed away to me in hopes that I could “pay my massive amounts of medical bills”. But I was not. I went because I wanted to carry on its legacy.

The person reading the will told me that my cup had written that I would receive something “very special very soon”. I was not told what, but I didn’t care. My cup was still looking after me, that was all I cared about.

I went back to my apartment and shut myself away for about a week. I couldn’t bear to look at the faces of my “friends” who didn’t even want to support me when I had lost my cup. Sure they “visited me in the hospital” and “greatly helped with my physical and mental recovery”, but that meant nothing to me.

I was in the apartment alone one day. I had finally gotten myself out of my room to make an actual lunch, just like my cup would have wanted. As I stood by the stove, a knock came from the door.

I went to it slowly and opened it. There was no one there. I was about to close it, but something caught my eye. I looked down towards my feet to see a basket.

There was a tiny cup in it, tucked away in a blanket. A pacifier was sticking out of the opening of it.

I fell to my knees and lifted the baby cup from the basket. It was the same black with white writing that my other cup had. I read it.

“I Pewiodicawwy Need a Bottle”

I laughed. For the first time in ages, I laughed. I laughed and I wept.

My cup had left its child for me to raise. I have never been more honored in my entire life.

It is difficult, being a single mother and a college student while also trying to balance being hilariously funny, but I know who I do it all for. I would not be the same if I had not won bingo that night.

About the Author

Isabelle Manetta is a senior media and communications major at Arcadia University. Frequently writing for Loco Mag, she mostly enjoys writing about strange pieces of media or more personal pieces.