Friday, October 16, 2009

Coffee...

I scoured the kitchen…looking for caffeine. A preliminary search revealed little hope. Soda, which I’ve had too much of in my life (trying to cut back, you see) is out. Tea, which is good for morning, but not so much for certain metabolisms in which the caffeine might not affect the system in the same manner in the midst of altered mindsets (i.e. Sleep Deprivation) of certain people (me), is out as well. This left… coffee. Mmmm… coffee… Knowing how tired I was earlier, and knowing my fourth (or is it fifth?) wind would give out any second… I tried a mixture…

As with most things coming from a kitchen at two in the morning, the aroma, while pleasing, left an awful aftertaste and stained my teeth. This was the strong stuff. Albeit mixing brewed coffee and instant coffee might seem, well, redundant, it was two in the morning and I was already suffering from sleep deprivation. as stated earlier. I tend to repeat myself in such dire times. I tend to repeat myself in such dire times. The substance made my teeth itch, and made my insides turn an awful color I’m sure. I tried to pour some cream into the… well, I dunno what to call it. Anyway, the darkness existing in this already shaking mug (or is that my arm?) enveloped the cream quickly - never to be seen again. I took a sip and it reminded me of fishing with some buddies from work. It was early and the sugar was at the bottom of the supply box and, afraid to look like a sissy, I settled for a dab of creamer in my coffee and was able to hold it down. Consequently that’s the same trip in which I learned to appreciate the amphetamine affects of pure percolated black coffee. Back to tonight. I barely suppressed my gag reflex for several reasons, one, I need the caffeine to set in, but mostly because I was afraid of the vomit - the taste, the smell, I wondered about the color as well. You would understand if you saw that coffee.

After the first mug, my arm wasn’t shaking any more, just the rest of my body. And the room. Probably the world, too. A wolf howled in the distance. I offered some coffee to the man standing next to me, before I realized that it wasn’t a person, but a manifestation of my spirit outside my body, taking refuge from the ill effects. That is, the vomiting. He took some anyway though, and then he promptly rushed to the bathroom. I wasn’t distraught, mostly because I knew I didn’t need a soul to write my English paper. The world stopped shaking, and an evil spirit rose from the cup and forced me to add butterscotch chips to what I can only assume is now a living mixture. It also possessed my body to force a cup of butterscotch pitch black slightly creamed instewed (instant + brewed) coffee down my piehole. I wondered where the word piehole came from when I regained control of most of my bodily functions; however I was still unable to stop my heart. Amazingly, at this point my gag reflex gave way and as a courtesy to the readers at home, or really, wherever you are, I will omit this…colorful description of my… pitch black… uncontrollable… projectile… nevermind.

The world gave up shaking altogether and decided to spin instead. I sat down, and poured whatever was left down the drain. Dad says the plumbers will be out on Tuesday and until then we’ll need to go to other places for running water and bathroom privileges. Also he said the drains have never been cleaner. He inquired about the butterscotch chips and I admitted dairy related addiction, and I go to a group on Friday. The English paper isn’t written, and this paper you are reading now (or that is being read to you) represents a quality thirty minutes of procrastination. My spleen is singing Irish drinking songs that I’ve never heard of and my stomach still refuses consolation. An MRI would surely reveal black spots along major blood lines and important organs, and I am neither surprised nor distraught, because those are merely aftereffects of said coffee and I’m sure they’ll wear off promptly after death. Even if they do match my shoes. My eyeballs philosophize about colors and higher meaning when my ears get involved. Tensions are only stressed when they take sides and once again my teeth are forced to mediate. As with most debates, things get political and my ears fire-bomb my eyes, resulting in bloodshot…ness. My nose has yet to forgive me for other reasons. I’m shaking again but only because it’s cold, and the letters on this paper are fighting with odd Yiddish weaponry. Mostly Throwing Stars of David. My bed welcomed me as a weary traveler welcomes cacti. Slowly fading into unconsciousness, I realized that sleep was impossible and remembered my English paper. I was suddenly aware that I hadn’t blinked in an hour and a half and I realized that I was hungry. I lazily walked to the kitchen, and evaluated my options. After ten minutes of this, I decided to experiment.

As with most things coming from the kitchen at two-thirty in the morning…

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