Since my late teenage years, I’ve been addicted to a drug. I had to take it several times a day during my working years in order to function normally, and even in retirement, I need to take it at least once a day. I see that a blogger named Jennifer Abel has the same dependency.
I’m trying to kick a drug addiction. The monkey on my back has sunk its sharp claws deep into me in a strangled mixed metaphor no self-respecting English-major professional like me would commit to print, were her judgment not clouded by the aforementioned addiction. Really strong, choice Colombian product — it’s become a crutch rather than a pick-me-up but I’m determined to break that crutch and my dependence on caffeine and walk on my own two legs again, by Zod. I’m feeling okay. Yeah, I think I can do this OH MY GOD THE HALLUCINATIONS ARE STARTING THERE’S BUGS CRAWLING EVERYWHERE … no, wait, that’s not a hallucination. That’s just me living in The South nowadays. Damned bugs. Screw this; I’m making some coffee.
So here I am, hooked on a strong Columbian intoxicant and suffering actual medical withdrawal symptoms when I try not-using it. Doesn’t matter how many hours of quality sleep I get of a night; I still won’t feel well-rested until I drink that first cup of coffee. So much for use in moderation. The government ought to ban this poison. You know what would really help me improve my life via ending my coffee dependence? An armed SWAT team working in conjunction with the DEA, breaking into my house, demolishing everything within it and hauling me off to spend several years in prison. … …
It’s a good thing I picked the right thing to be addicted to. If I were addicted to something less socially acceptable, I might have done serious prison time in my life, especially if I had not been born white and middle-class.