"I don’t know much about her but I’m kind of infatuated with this girl. Or maybe it’s the idea of her that I’ve created. I found myself thinking about her tonight on a walk under some makeshift constellations struggling through the light pollution of Boston, fleeting thoughts coming and going like New England snowfalls. It’s not a lusty, I-want-to-fuck-her kind of deal. I want to hold her close and sing her soft rainstorm melodies and move her in a way that makes her feel unspeakably alive because there’s nothing that has touched her to the core like that in a long time. I want to bear my soul to her in the way that symphonies are written, so that at its completion, my story will have completely enveloped her like B minor at the predawn of a snow-covered day, and she’ll realize that there is nothing more painfully right than the overlap of the lines on our palms and all the countless intersections of her eyes (beautiful, sun-drenched) and mine.
Coming from someone who is usually a fiend for mood enhancing vices (I’m talking 4, 5 cans of Coke a day and a previous socially acceptable Nurofen Plus addiction) this should strike you as slightly odd.
Look, it’s not as if I haven’t tried making it work.
Back in my uni days, suffering one all nighter after another, my girlfriend at the time suggested I give it a shot.
But I could rarely finish a cup. It tasted like shit. Shitty tar drink.
However this afternoon I followed Sabrina’s advice and tried a mocha with HALF a shot of coffee.
The first few sips were painful…and it left an aftertaste in my mouth that reminded me of smoking. Which is foul.
"Keep drinking, you’ll get used to it," Sabrina promised.
Now, forgive me if I’m wrong but I didn’t think I was supposed to have to get used to something that most people adore, neigh, RELY on?
However by the end of the cup I caught myself scooping up the remaining coffee flavoured foam with my index finger and putting it in my mouth.