By: Saije Rusimovici, Staff Writer The attack of the oat milk foam, 9:02 a.m. I woke up to the sound of my Nespresso machine whirling. It was recently gifted to me under the name of “Santa,” which I decided to take as a whimsical gesture from my partner’s mother, who never quite gave up her sense of childlike wonder. Usually, the drip drip sound of the caramel-scented coffee and the satisfying spin of the milk frother would stimulate my brain with the promise of caffeine. The thing is, though, I live alone — I did not turn on the coffee machine. …
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