Coffee-Houses are the Opium-Dens of today, the only difference being that, back in the day, patrons of those caverns of iniquity fantasized in their heads instead of on stage in front of an apathetic audience...
My (under-researched) understanding of caffeine’s effect on ADD-addled adolescents was sufficient to make a direct comparison to a manic-depressive in an Opium-Den: if you’re already producing the good stuff yourself, why fuck around with a middleman?
And, out of that, voila! A big, steaming bowl of analogous magic for you to spoon-up at your leisure!
Personally, I’m less attention-deficient than I am an unevenly-weighted "peak-and-valley" kind of cat – my valleys come once every couple of years and last for an hour; my peaks make spastic, over-dosing crystal-meth-addicts look like 98-year-old museum curators, and they last until the insomnia kicks in, wherein I promptly transform into a pale-skinned, gaunt-eyed drawing from Tim Burton’s sketchbook, with all the humour & charisma one would expect from a 2-D doodle that hasn’t slept or eaten anything in three days.
There was a theory put forth that I’m addicted to my own hormones; that, conversely to depressed folks, my body produces more than my natural share of "peptides"...I’ve looked it up on Wikipedia, and they lost me at "molecules formed from the linking, in a defined order, of various amino acids".
The substance of the theory, though, is too good to ignore: I’m addicted to myself.
Of course, I’m surprised by this "revelation" the same way I was "shocked" when that guy gave me the finger after he cut me off this morning...but it’s nice to have even a flawed chemical explanation of my blind, unending self-appreciation.
I have, many times, proclaimed that I am the walking, bragging advertisement against cocaine – and though I’ve snorted that fancy-shmancy salt & vinegar popcorn-topping through a rolled-up twenty-dollar-bill (don’t ask), and accidentally inhaled two nostrils worth of cayenne-pepper, I never once hopped on the cocaine-train.
I know; I’m proud of myself for never hitting my girlfriend either, if you’re curious.
(In the movie Dead Man, Billy Bob Thornton has, like, 4 lines, and I use 2 of them frequently:
"Burns like hellfire."
"I just can’t drink like I used to could."
These are ALWAYS funny, but much more so if you’ve got Billy Bob’s jangled hillbilly voice ricocheting around in your head; I used the former rapidly after snorting the popcorn-topping, the latter, paraphrased, every weekend since 2004.)
I guess the moral to this post, because morals are SO IMPORTANT when one is writing batches upon batches of Dipshittery, is that you should come hang around with me when you’re having one of those non-sunny-side-up days; you’ll even me out with your massive despondency, and you’ll have more fun than is legal in six different countries.