The Sad Tale of a Caffeine Junkie
There are certain things that you cannot, under any circumstances do. Things like, "Don't call a broad a 'b&%$' -- to her face." Or, "Never touch a black man's radio -- or step on his gators." Or, "Never ask a woman her age." Or, "Don't stop at gas stations in the deep south, at night, if you're colored."
Chief among these NO-NOs is, "Don't you ever, ever, ever, at any time, anyplace, ever brew decaf coffee in a pot that isn't CLEARLY marked 'Decaf'!" If the pot doesn't have an orange handle and spout or if it isn't marked "Decaf" then a nigga is to assume that it's regular coffee.
Some rube in the office decided to display a grand level of hubris and made some 'Decaf' in the regular pot, only to announce over the intercom -- about an hour later -- that we were all mislead and he was so sorry for the mixup and that it won't happen again. He's right, it won't happen again, because I'm going to slit his throat right in the middle of him sending some loutish message to one of his FaceBook friends.
I'm serious about my coffe, as I detailed in this previous blogpost about my discuss for mulatto coffee. But the Decaf Shenanigans goes past frustration. It's beyond irritating. It's dangerous, for I, folks, am a chemically dependant, full-fledged caffeine junkie. This deserves an illustrative story...
In November, I had the pleasure of watching a close friend get married. Even better, my nig J allowed me to accompany him to Chicago (his wife's hometown) for the few days leading up to the ceremony. We left Monday night. By Wednesday afternoon my head felt like Onyx was stomping it out with early-90s Timb boots and I had the shakes. How did this happen? How did I get here? How did I become a straight-up junkie?
Coffee, much like beer, tasted disgusting to me as a little kid. But far before I was able to truly enjoy the subtle tastes and flavors of good whiskeys, bourbons, single malts, cognacs and vodkas; me and my crew were drinking cheap brandy, malt liquor and such. Our motto was: It ain't about how it tastes, it's about what it do to your face! In other words, screw the fact that this jug of Christian Brothers ran us a collective $12, we'll buzzed and fuzzed soon enough. I was drawn to coffee for similar reasons. I didn't start this java routine until my freshman year in college. trying and restless times those were. So I used to snatch Starbucks before morning and afternoon classes. It perked me up. When I moved on my own and got a coffee maker, it became a routine. I'd set the timer. It'd get so bad that, on some nights, I'd dream of my first cup in the morning. That first hint of the aroma is truly one of life's most underrated pleasantries.
For close to 10 years, I probably went without coffee, maybe 50 days. When you think about that, it's kinda sick. It means that most years, maybe only once every other month did I experience a java-free 24-hour period. Now, I wasn't the nigga that would drink 6 cups a day -- I was a reasonable 2-3 cup dude, but it was the consistency that developed the dependency.
Let's fast forward to this past November and Chicago....
The Saturday preceding the trip, I woke up late and uncharacteristically skipped the coffee, figuring that it was to be a lazy day and I'll rendezvous with my caffeine Sunday morn. That night I got up with my dude Chuck and his cousins. We went out, had some drinks and I was naturally a little dehydrated the next morn. I woke up rushing, however, trying to get ready for the Sunday Night Bills game, one I was attending with a large crew. Tailgating was to be starting soon. Beer, whiskey, meat, fires and touch football were on my mind -- not coffee. Before you know it, my nig Jathan was honking his horn and we were on our way. That evening was beautifully brutal. Cold weather, charred meat, grown-man whiskey -- stuff that you need to recover from. When I retired that night, it had been a good 36 hours since my last cup of coffee. Not cool.
I woke up the next evening -- yes evening -- having only enough time to pack and head over to J's crib so we could beat morning traffic and hit the road. He was moving to Chicago, which meant driving his jeep, with a U-Haul hitched. I managed to snag a cup of Starbucks early Tuesday morning right before we hit the road. We arrived to Chicago late that afternoon. Upon arrival, we unloaded J's stuff amidst the cold and rainy Chicago weather and then headed over his in-laws for the evening. Waiting there, was Uncle Leon, J's Pops. If Uncle Leon is anywhere, then some moonshine is not too far away. Predictably, Uncle Leon had Brandon smuggle some 'shine (illegal in the US) into Chicago. After about 2 cups of 'shine (very modest, for me) and multiple games of spades, we went back to J's crib late that morning and I checked out.
I woke up Wednesday with a severe headache and muscle cramps. Seriously. Over the previous 4 days, I would have usually consumed anywhere between 8-12 cups of coffee. I had one. Wednesday went along and I was beyond sluggish. People kept asking what was wrong with me. I was passing up liquor, wasn't laughing much, wasn't talking much. Just in pain, tired and fighting a headache. I figured I was just worn out and maybe catching a cold, but later that night, when my body temperature started fluctuating and I was walking around with a blanket like a pregnant woman, I started wonder. I went to bed that night trembling like a bish, in a hoodie and balled up in a blanket. Other cats were walkin around in boxers and Ts.
I bypassed the coffee again on Thursday. No coffee maker in J's crib, no coffee drinkers in the midst and no Dunkin Donuts or Starbucks in clear sight...I was jammed up, plus, my mind was moreso on the weird way my body was behaving.
By the evening, as I was drinking seltzer and walking around like an Old Maid and basically ready to fall asleep at 8pm, my boy was like, "Dude, what is going on with you?!" which was the point when it finally dawned on me that this could actually be me on some junkie steez, withdrawing from coffee. I ask Sis. Storey to make a pot of strong coffee. I sipped down two cups that evening and, in a fit of desperation, copped a cup of Subway coffe Friday morning. Wouldn't you know I felt brand new.
It was sad. Folks were keeping an eye on my coffee in take for the rest of the weekend on some, "Vince did you get your coffee today?", like I had diabetes.
So you see how serious this is. When it's morning-time and I'm coming for my caffeine fix, don't be the idiot that brews some decaf in the regular pot, throwing off my equilibrium. Stunts like that will get a nigga cut. Seriously, it's that real.
Chief among these NO-NOs is, "Don't you ever, ever, ever, at any time, anyplace, ever brew decaf coffee in a pot that isn't CLEARLY marked 'Decaf'!" If the pot doesn't have an orange handle and spout or if it isn't marked "Decaf" then a nigga is to assume that it's regular coffee.
Some rube in the office decided to display a grand level of hubris and made some 'Decaf' in the regular pot, only to announce over the intercom -- about an hour later -- that we were all mislead and he was so sorry for the mixup and that it won't happen again. He's right, it won't happen again, because I'm going to slit his throat right in the middle of him sending some loutish message to one of his FaceBook friends.
I'm serious about my coffe, as I detailed in this previous blogpost about my discuss for mulatto coffee. But the Decaf Shenanigans goes past frustration. It's beyond irritating. It's dangerous, for I, folks, am a chemically dependant, full-fledged caffeine junkie. This deserves an illustrative story...
In November, I had the pleasure of watching a close friend get married. Even better, my nig J allowed me to accompany him to Chicago (his wife's hometown) for the few days leading up to the ceremony. We left Monday night. By Wednesday afternoon my head felt like Onyx was stomping it out with early-90s Timb boots and I had the shakes. How did this happen? How did I get here? How did I become a straight-up junkie?
Coffee, much like beer, tasted disgusting to me as a little kid. But far before I was able to truly enjoy the subtle tastes and flavors of good whiskeys, bourbons, single malts, cognacs and vodkas; me and my crew were drinking cheap brandy, malt liquor and such. Our motto was: It ain't about how it tastes, it's about what it do to your face! In other words, screw the fact that this jug of Christian Brothers ran us a collective $12, we'll buzzed and fuzzed soon enough. I was drawn to coffee for similar reasons. I didn't start this java routine until my freshman year in college. trying and restless times those were. So I used to snatch Starbucks before morning and afternoon classes. It perked me up. When I moved on my own and got a coffee maker, it became a routine. I'd set the timer. It'd get so bad that, on some nights, I'd dream of my first cup in the morning. That first hint of the aroma is truly one of life's most underrated pleasantries.
For close to 10 years, I probably went without coffee, maybe 50 days. When you think about that, it's kinda sick. It means that most years, maybe only once every other month did I experience a java-free 24-hour period. Now, I wasn't the nigga that would drink 6 cups a day -- I was a reasonable 2-3 cup dude, but it was the consistency that developed the dependency.
Let's fast forward to this past November and Chicago....
The Saturday preceding the trip, I woke up late and uncharacteristically skipped the coffee, figuring that it was to be a lazy day and I'll rendezvous with my caffeine Sunday morn. That night I got up with my dude Chuck and his cousins. We went out, had some drinks and I was naturally a little dehydrated the next morn. I woke up rushing, however, trying to get ready for the Sunday Night Bills game, one I was attending with a large crew. Tailgating was to be starting soon. Beer, whiskey, meat, fires and touch football were on my mind -- not coffee. Before you know it, my nig Jathan was honking his horn and we were on our way. That evening was beautifully brutal. Cold weather, charred meat, grown-man whiskey -- stuff that you need to recover from. When I retired that night, it had been a good 36 hours since my last cup of coffee. Not cool.
I woke up the next evening -- yes evening -- having only enough time to pack and head over to J's crib so we could beat morning traffic and hit the road. He was moving to Chicago, which meant driving his jeep, with a U-Haul hitched. I managed to snag a cup of Starbucks early Tuesday morning right before we hit the road. We arrived to Chicago late that afternoon. Upon arrival, we unloaded J's stuff amidst the cold and rainy Chicago weather and then headed over his in-laws for the evening. Waiting there, was Uncle Leon, J's Pops. If Uncle Leon is anywhere, then some moonshine is not too far away. Predictably, Uncle Leon had Brandon smuggle some 'shine (illegal in the US) into Chicago. After about 2 cups of 'shine (very modest, for me) and multiple games of spades, we went back to J's crib late that morning and I checked out.
I woke up Wednesday with a severe headache and muscle cramps. Seriously. Over the previous 4 days, I would have usually consumed anywhere between 8-12 cups of coffee. I had one. Wednesday went along and I was beyond sluggish. People kept asking what was wrong with me. I was passing up liquor, wasn't laughing much, wasn't talking much. Just in pain, tired and fighting a headache. I figured I was just worn out and maybe catching a cold, but later that night, when my body temperature started fluctuating and I was walking around with a blanket like a pregnant woman, I started wonder. I went to bed that night trembling like a bish, in a hoodie and balled up in a blanket. Other cats were walkin around in boxers and Ts.
I bypassed the coffee again on Thursday. No coffee maker in J's crib, no coffee drinkers in the midst and no Dunkin Donuts or Starbucks in clear sight...I was jammed up, plus, my mind was moreso on the weird way my body was behaving.
By the evening, as I was drinking seltzer and walking around like an Old Maid and basically ready to fall asleep at 8pm, my boy was like, "Dude, what is going on with you?!" which was the point when it finally dawned on me that this could actually be me on some junkie steez, withdrawing from coffee. I ask Sis. Storey to make a pot of strong coffee. I sipped down two cups that evening and, in a fit of desperation, copped a cup of Subway coffe Friday morning. Wouldn't you know I felt brand new.
It was sad. Folks were keeping an eye on my coffee in take for the rest of the weekend on some, "Vince did you get your coffee today?", like I had diabetes.
So you see how serious this is. When it's morning-time and I'm coming for my caffeine fix, don't be the idiot that brews some decaf in the regular pot, throwing off my equilibrium. Stunts like that will get a nigga cut. Seriously, it's that real.
posted by Twistinado @ 12:16 PM
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