Kelly and the Keurig

For my 23rd birthday there's one present, and one present alone. That's fine because after a certain point, it's better to stop calling them birthdays and instead regard them as an anniversary of your 21st. This will be the first year I lie about my age to seem younger and other milestones such as buying "Adam", my new car, and finally seeing gains in my 401K after owing the Dow Jones money for several months. I don't need presents anymore, or big parties. I only need what's in the big, green papered box on the kitchen counter.

It's a Keurig.

At work, Keurigs are a sign of accomplishment, of power. They are issued to management like trophies. Having one screams "I'm better than the break room coffee" which is below many people, all things considered, as dunkin' donuts empties are the garbage can standard. And beyond the convenience of having a coffee maker prominently displayed at the entryway of my office, Keurigs are mechanical wonders as anything with a Swedish-sounding name should be. My fascination manifests in the daily consumption of probably 5 cups of single brewed Keurig goodness for the first two weeks of ownership. Incidentally, I didn't sleep for 12 days.