I will be eaten alive by coffee shops.

There's always a coffee shop, and I'll always be there.

I remember the first time I ever went into a coffee shop. It was fifteen years ago, in Oregon, while I was antiquing with my mom. I remember my mom drinking a lot of coffee back then, and I remember thinking it tasted too much like adulthood and mud. As we walked through the dreamiest Oregon town to date, we came upon a small old looking coffee shop...and my mother was enticed. As we walked inside my life was simultaneously javinated and apocalypsed.

Shelves of books, a vintage loft, trillions of couches and armchairs scrunched up next to one another... and a small balcony in the back overlooking a quiet river. It was the vibe of a lifetime. I'll never forget it.

Nowadays I genuinely like coffee (with lots of "naughty naughty bad girl" half n half as Pioneer Woman would say), and I take my yearly vacations in pursuit of great coffee shops. Brett even had to sign a contract when we got married that said he would contribute significant amounts of our yearly budget for "traipsing around for spectacularly vibe'n coffee serving spaces"... alright, he didn't. But sometimes I think he thinks he did.

Our adventures have led us to yet another vibe'n, wooden floored, fabulously mustard colored walled, mason-jar-light-fixtured, dark wood tabled, modern-shaped-metal-chaired Java Shop. Seven Mile Coffee. Denton, Texas.

So you should probably go. And while you're there, get a cinnamon roll. And your life will be eternally altered. Or, simply, changed. Perhaps both.