Jen took me to the mall yesterday morning. I thought I’d get a decent walk in before the place was crowded with shoppers. I kinda, sorta did. Okay, not really.
I did a short yet excruciating 5/8 of a mile before calling it quits. Afterward, all I wanted was a cup of coffee—something dark and rich with a wee splash of milk. That’s not too much to ask, is it?!
Sadly, the Starbucks (AKA Charbucks) in Target was closed and I was WAY too knackered to hoof it to the food court (a half mile away). As long as I’m kvetching, the only java option at the grub hub is a Dunkin’ Donuts which is just UNdrinkable—even ordered black, it tastes as though 25 teaspoons of sugar’s been added.
Jen had an idea. We drove to a strip mall nearby where there was an open Starbucks. She zipped in and got me a “small” cup (referred to in their corporate-speak as a “tall”—make this make sense!).
Now then, I’ve got my joy juice and am loving it—this was such a treat. Over the past four years I’ve had MAYBE half a dozen cups ‘o’ life restoring joe at most. Why so few? Between hospital stays and the ultra slow rehab process, I’m not getting enough exercise or activity (YET!) to burn off 12 ounces of caffeinated heaven. I knew this, dammit.
Remember the singer Tim Buckley? Supposedly he’d been addicted to heroin but quit. Then, as legend has it, he decided to take one more trip through the poppy fields. He didn’t consider that his tolerance, since he’d stopped using, had gone WAY the fuck down. He didn’t need as much to fly and snorted his usual, pre cleanup amount and ODed.
Yep, that was EXACTLY me with the caffeine. I’m lucky to have come away with my life…ya know?! I suppose this means that, IF I’m going to have another cuppa lightning, it’ll have to be decaf. OR I’ll need to limit myself to an itty bitty shot glass sized portion.
*sigh*
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