“You know what your problem is?” I could hear him in my ear. The ringing one.
Coffee is an underrated drug — my version of chain-smoking, boozing, and getting split up the ass with some random guy’s fist. I’m drinking my second mug, watching the rain ruin everything outside, with a goofy gin & tonic-less grin on my face.
If you saw me, you couldn’t tell. I have a hard time showing my emotions. Part genetics — I’ve only recently realized, and accepted, the fact that I may have been born with some biological deformity on my face that leaves me looking like Edvard Munch’s “The Scream”… Part habit, born from being stared at — and not in an I-want-to-fuck-you sort of way.
I’m not that kind of girl.
I’m not a real java junkie. I mean, I take it with so much heavy cream and coconut sugar you’d think I was drinking a vanilla milkshake, but hot.
I gave it up for awhile, because it was screwing with my sleep. Bad RLS and hypnic jerks. Coffee, not cream and sugar.
In the end, I decided to parse out a day every few weeks or so to just go wild. My idea of wild.
I’m a good girl living in a bad world.
The worst I ever did was drink nearly an entire bottle of scotch. I was 16. The last time I remember getting shit-faced drunk was after my 10-year high school reunion. Gary and his girlfriend du jour booked a nice suite at the Royal Hawaiian. Me, Elaine, Mari-jo, etc. stayed overnight, hammering the Kahlua & Cream, talking shit about all the losers and burn-outs who acted like it was still 1982, and they still ruled the world.
In reality, most of them are fast food servers who still get into bar brawls on the weekends, with about a thousand Section 8 kids.
When I drink too much, I turn into a whore. I’d dry-hump anything within a 30-mile radius.
That’s not even the worst part.
The worst, as anyone would agree, happens the morning after. Hang-overs suck. All I want to do is sit next to a toilet all day, hurling my guts out.
Not worth the momentary high where you actually convince yourself you’re Angelina Jolie, and all the guys want you.
I’d rather have my (cream masquerading as) coffee and sit here remembering the close calls and near-fatal attractions — from a safe distance — while Uber Eats delivers my sushi and gyoza with triple masks and surgical gloves.
Maybe watch a passing stranger eat it on the sidewalk. Bonus points.
“You’re never happy,” he finished.
Shut the fuck up, Jon. Honest to god…
Originally published at https://carolbankswebercoggie.wordpress.com on February 2, 2021.
All bullshit aside, a new review hits these pages Friday…