Well, I’ve relapsed. Again.
I mean on coffee.
It’s actually not that big of a deal. But lemme backtrack a few steps for those of you who’ve not been updated and know me as a life-long caf-fiend who always swore a life of death before decaf. A few months ago, during my #30daysofnewthings challenge, I opted to nix the gargantuan pot of coffee I might as well have been dragging around on an I.V. line with me every morning. It was only ever meant to be a day or two long – just to see if I could deal – of replacing my morning regimen with green tea. But when I noticed a shiz ton of my miscellaneous self-diagnosed “disorders” disappearing parallel to the absence of my daily A.M. overdose of the brown stuff, I couldn’t deny that it might be worth adding to my “one day at a time” not-to-do list. Since then, I’ve only had the stuff two or three times. And TBH, it hasn’t been that hard to jettison the joe. That said (keeping with the theme of my angels/demons recent piece), it’s worth mentioning that this is one of those sporadic demons that spurs my occasional angels. An intermittent indulgence. Unlike some of my vices that serve no purpose and I don’t intend to give my time and mind to again, coffee is one of those things I can easily say I intend to enjoy every so often – as a social, chore-doing, cardio, and life-in-general PED.
(Nevermind that no one can understand what I’m saying ’cause my conversational cadence sounds like a lawnmower.)
Because today, when I ordered a mocha so sugary that I contracted diabetes just from picking it up, it picked me up in a way like I never remember it doing before. After departing from my coffee date, I went on a double long third-run of the day, came home, cleaned every room I’ve been putting off, scrubbed the tub, made several treks to the dumpster, did laundry, scoured the counters and floors, and somewhere in between managed my usual evening exercise routine apart from said three runs. No wonder I had panic attacks before. I was following my sumatra chugging seshes with sitting around and praying for inspiration from the author gods. But even then, I don’t recall it feeling quite like this. Your first time relapsing on coffee is kinda like your first time trying… less than legal amphetamines. (Hypothetically… I’d think… I’d assume…. If I weren’t an angel devoid of any wrongdoing ever and could speak to that.)
Anyway, then – inevitably – the crash came.
Right around the time I was stewing up a Brillo and Comet concoction on the African black soap stains in my tub, it washed over me along with a wave of nausea. It was funny how it happened too – right on the heels of the most random thought: “It’s Friday night and I’m doing this by choice. Yet I don’t want to!” (Don’t ask me why; but that was post visit by a Death-Eater level depressing for some reason.) Then, came the follow-up realization: that I was both Cinderella and the evil step mother all in one and there was no escaping that schizophrenic fact. The angel and the demon. Just like the uber dose of caffeine I’d received after falling off the legal upper wagon – lifting me up, only to rip my magic carpet from beneath my celestial ride. Was it worth it, though? Is it worth it? Granted that journey down and the impending impact weren’t pleasant, but the disparity between it and the journey before the drop is nothing like the chemical cliff fall I’ve experienced with coffee’s less benign cousins.
Or maybe I’m just justifying the demon cuzza the angelic results I saw once my stimulant induced fugue state lifted.
I legit didn’t even recognize my own kitchen.
Alright. So the first one’s a meth lab and the second one’s a kitchen that probably looks like a meth lab compared to the actual one Angelina has IRL. Gimme a break. I was too distracted to take a pre-snap and too exhausted to take a post-one. But the point remains: This crimeless Mario power flower is worth noggin knocking a floating block occasionally and upgrading to.
So I’mma keep this demon back burnered as an angelic busy-bee booty call for my “don’t wanna” days.