And then, one day, the TCC is done. Bound. Delivered. Defended.
The caneco is not elegant. It is wide, sturdy, slightly chipped at the rim from hurried mornings and sleepless nights. Its handle fits four fingers, because sometimes one hand needs to hold the entire weight of a delayed introduction. Inside, it carries coffee — black, bitter, often reheated three times. Sometimes, when the spirit falters, it carries chamomile or hot chocolate, a small mercy before the final statistical analysis.
But slowly, methodically, they begin to fill it.
The student looks at the caneco — now empty again, rinsed and waiting. They smile. They do not throw it away. They pack it carefully, because they know: the caneco is not for the thesis. It is for the self who wrote it. And that self will write again.
So here's to the caneco TCC — may your coffee be strong, your margins be correct (ABNT, be kind), and your journey be worthy of every sip.
First, the rough draft — a thick, lumpy brew of half-formed ideas and citations from Wikipedia (quickly replaced). Then, the methodology: clear, cold water poured with precision. Then, the results — a strong shot of realization, bitter but necessary. And finally, the conclusion: a slow drip of insight, filtered through weeks of doubt, late-night epiphanies, and the quiet support of friends who said, "You can do it."
