Monday 7 May 2018

That's sixty low-quality minutes (and a level of crankiness no one's even seen before now.)

I had an iced coffee yesterday midafternoon and it cost me all but a single hour of nightmare-laden, restless birdsong-filled sleep and today now I am weirdly high-strung and faintly miserable and yet I can't go to bed until at least ten-thirty tonight because that's when Ruth gets home from work.

I'm never drinking that shit again. I might go off coffee again altogether because wow. That was so awful I can barely quantify it. It's bullshit, is what it is.

I would love to be a coffee or tea-drinking fanatic but strangely it seems too challenging. Sam says some people just can't. Others are hardly affected. I asked him why it takes a mountain of heroin to get me high but just looking at a cup of coffee leaves me awake for weeks. I was hoping to shut him down with horror but he was incredibly matter-of-fact and I got a long lecture about different drugs creating different results using our individual biochemistries. Then I got a lecture about trying to shame the shameless and the devout. Ouch, Sam.

It's okay though, Ben was game to stay up all night, since he generally does. And we are all caught up on time with each other, mutual depravity and maybe a little shame too, but only if you look us both directly in the eye.

(Snort.)

And it's ten fucking degrees today, which means no pool time for Bridget, who doubled-down on chores yesterday afternoon so I could free up all of today for myself and that freshly-filled pool and this is what I get for my efforts. Nice.

Coffee for your thoughts? Sam asks as he veers around my scowl.

I won't write down the words I said in return.