There are a few subjects that really set me off, as those of you who are my long-time readers have many times borne ample witness. Politics is obviously one of them, although I�m not always happy about it (I mean, I�m proud that I take an interest in political issues, because they have global repercussions and are therefore extremely important, but I�m not terribly proud of the way they turn me into a blind, sputtering, lunatic activist at the drop of a hat; it is for that reason I�ve made a very conscious effort not to discuss politics in this space as much as I once did). Another hot-button issue, with perhaps less of a national impact attached (unless it causes me to snap and shoot up a fast-food eatery) is the subject of my comestibles.
Now, I�ve been totally open about my weird and irrational fixation with candy and, to a lesser extent, coffee. I�d like to revisit those points again, because I�m starting to feel a familiar itch in my hamstring, like it�s begging to be stretched out in juuuust the proper angle to smash my heel into someone�s face. What could put our normally level headed and even-keeled hero into such a tizzy, you ask? And stop making those air quotes when you say "level headed" and "even-keeled", it�s very rude. Don�t piss me off, buddy. I�ll shoot up a fast-food eatery.
Anyway, the topic I�m going to revisit is that of the coffee, although don�t everybody go running out of the room like you all know what�s coming, because it�s not exactly the same issue as before. Well, okay, sort of, but I�m going to use some different words when I�m talking about it, and I know you guys are all suckers for the English language! Right? Am I right? I see you hiding out there, Elizabeth Barrett Browning! I know I got you hooked. I had you at �forsooth�.
But this isn�t about the English language, or how I abuse it, or how it likes to be abused, because it�s really kinky that way, and YOU DON�T GET TO JUDGE ME! This is about the fact that I�m starting to feel a little used and abused myself by those co-workers of mine at Arts-Friendly who like to share in the spoils of my caffeine dependency without contributing any efforts of their own. Specifically, I�m starting to resent the question, "Have you made the coffee, yet?"
Yet, like it�s just expected that I�m going to do it. Which of course I am, since I don�t think I could stumble through another morning in this sinkhole of despair without a jolt to my system in the form of either caffeine, or possibly a couple thousand volts of electricity. Or maybe some 40% pure heroin. Well, that would kill me, probably, but even that would still be better than some of the indignities I�m forced to endure on behalf of my skeletal paycheck. Anyway, I�m getting a little sick and tired of people waiting and waiting and waiting for me to get up and make a pot of coffee, so that they can swoop down on it like a flock of turkey buzzards and suck it all up as soon as I�ve poured my first cup and left the carcass behind. That�s on a good day, though. Sometimes they try to beat me to the punch by stealing the first cup. On those occasions, I feel no qualms about offering them the punch, gratis, if you know what I mean.
Maybe this is a completely whacked-out and illogical reaction, since after all, I�m not paying for the coffee. Plus, I am the one who can�t seem to live without it, so it only makes sense that I be the one to make it, I guess, but it grates a little when people start giving me disapproving looks and tsk-ing when they come up to scavenge the corpse a little bit and the pot isn�t full. And then later in the day when I go back for round two of my caffeine fix, only to find that those jackals have sucked it all down and I have to make another pot�let�s just say that my blood pressure climbs to an altitude where I�m afraid it might get tangled in a radio tower and start receiving transmissions from outer space.
There�s nothing I can really do about it, though. Short of shooting up the fast-food place, I mean. I still make coffee every morning, and as long as I make it, they�ll keep drinking it. I suppose my only avenue of recourse is the hardest and most unappealing option of all: grow up and deal with it.
I hate that.
Someone Got Here By Searching For: funny outgoing answering messages I�m Watching: America�s [Last] Top Model, and it�s too bad those pesky career opportunities kept getting in the way of Nicole�s life goals, and all. And: Blow Out on Bravo. Are those people for real? Seriously, are they? Because they don�t act like real people.