Coffeeeeeie

Is coffee really my friend? It lifts me up when I'm down, which is most definitely a good friendlike characteristic. It jolts me awake when I'm tired, which is I suppose a good friend would do, but most likely would not, I hope, while I was still alive, actually use those electrical zapping paddles you always see in ER. In fact coffee leaves me in a perpetual state of fight or flight. Hrm the adrenaline rush of caffeine is really in fact like being constantly confronted by a big snarling hellbeast. I can feel my heart doing double time in my chest cavity.

Wooie.

Okay a mark on each side.

But look it comes in such nice yummy flavors, in fact to my mind everything but pickles compliments the taste of a good cup of joe. Which then only draws each of us more deeply into its evil clutches. Yes evil clutches. Okay I think I have come to a conclusion.

Coffee is evil. It maligns to ease us into dependency at our mother's knee; she who sips that sweet black cuppa is only another loss to that subtle addiction, and how can it be false if the pap you suckle says it is not? Coffee might not have a conscious but its malevolent PRE-conscious tempts us with startling flavor contrasts, and exciting flutterings in our breasts. It moves the blood in all the false ways of well spoken rabble-rousers. It moves us like sex, like chocolate, like the forbidden fruit... it is danger contained in a convenient cardboard cup

I myself have never had much of a need for the java, being an insanely cheerful morning person, but the very mention of that bracing brew has me panting, slavering in a Pavlovian response. The sound of the grinder chewing through beans is beyond comforting, it brings to mind memories of my childhood, of lazy mornings when my mother, my father were softer, when life was simpler.

I love coffee.

I hate coffee. In fact I hate coffee so much that I am drinking a cuppa as we speak, or type, whatever. Maybe this is the only reason I am writing this morning, err afternoon, because it moves me to eloquence? Or at least attempts at such.

Uncle Dan is nobody's uncle

I am now the newest sales person at what I can only call an urban camping outfitter. A chicago fixture, Uncle Dan's is the store you hit up when you want to go skiing in June in the Alps, or don't know what to wear on your cruise to the Artic Circle. No joke, I had a woman in once who wanted to know what to wear to Antartica. So anyway we sell everything from The North Face to Patagonia, to Icebreaker and I love it, which is something I never thought I would enjoy. I mean me selling clothing? yesh. Well it does fund my own buying of clothing then, because I cant help but want half the stuff I sell. Sigh.

The funniest thing tho, is not that I am selling NorthFace fleeces to rich children of richer SUV driving soccer moms, nono the funniest thing is I work with highschool students. Well and really old people in their late 30s, the ones that are permanent, as in full time tennured profesors. I dont have a clue how to get along with any of them, because half of them are sooooooooooooooo young, and the other half are soooooooooooooo staid. I feel alternately old and strange, and young and crazy, and as a result I usually just force all this hyperness out into cleaning. I think their floors are well swept for the first time in years.