Notorious

Ominous

Om·i·nous/adjective:

Giving the impression that something bad or unpleasant is going to happen; threatening; inauspicious.

Now, I don't know about ominous feelings or superstitions, but what I do know are definitions. And by definition, the feeling I have had in my gut since this morning has proved to be very ominous.

My eyes continue to burn holes through the can as if somehow, by staring, it would make the magical brown powder appear. But, of course, that never works and I am left with the simple fact that I'm out of coffee. Aspen Russo is actually out of coffee. I must be dead. This has to be hell.

Aspen Russo never runs out of coffee.

Yet, somehow when I opened the tin can to feed my growing addiction to caffeine, all that I was met with was air. Air. That never happens to me; as soon as the can even drops half-way I always run out to the store to buy a whole new one, in order to avoid a situation just as this.

But, I guess I must have forgotten in the time spent between work, rehearsals, and all around brooding. I set down the tin can with a loud clank and rigidly step away from the monstrosity.

The fact that I don't have coffee to start off my morning already has my stomach in knots; probably because it is just as angry as I am about not getting it's fix and also because my coffee shortage can only be considered as a bad omen.

Already in a horrible mood, I set the burner on my tiny stove to boil water for tea. Tea. I shiver at the pathetic excuse for a placebo.

It takes me almost an hour longer than it usually would to throw on some make-up and a band tee shirt for multiple reasons:

1.      I physically cannot function without morning coffee.

2.      The Italian blood running through my veins has already caused my quick temper to spark and I have to play with my corgi, Yoda, for a good ten minutes in order to cool down.

3.      I'm drinking bloody tea for Christ's sake.

I finally clamber out of my bedroom at nine and have to toss aside the many books, clothes, and shopping bags that litter the small hardwood floors of my Manhattan apartment. I find my favorite wooden guitar pick just under my blue tweed couch and sigh in relief.

I couldn't possibly show up to band practice without a guitar pick.

Hmmm, maybe it would've actually been better if I didn't find it, then.

I sling my guitar case higher up my shoulder as I lock up and amble down the stairs of my apartment complex. I receive a few 'good mornings' from the tenants and narrowly avoid another conversation with old woman Betty about how her cats are feeling this morning. The woman is absolutely mad.

Living in the same building since I was eighteen comes with its perks; I'm invited to all the Christmas parties, free snacks and cookies whenever I'm ill, I can ask for as many favors as I'd like without coming off like a beggar, and people are extremely kind to a girl they have practically watched grow up for the last four years.

However, things do get a bit awkward whenever I bring a boy home since the twelve people that live on my floor are basically like embarrassing chaperones. Which is exactly why I refrain from bringing members of the opposite sex home as often as possible.

I say a quick hello to the burly security guard, Lenny, before pushing the swinging glass door open. The gust of cold wind I'm met with nearly knocks me back and I immediately regret wearing a leather skirt today. It's only October, but you would think that New York had suddenly been transported to Antarctica overnight by how cold it is here.