Dear Lacksadaisy,
I think I have an addiction to the
small lollies you get in jars. I like to have them with me at all
times, or I get a little nervous. Sometimes I just like to touch them
in my bag to calm me down. Is it really so bad? Or should I get help?
Farley.
Dear Farley,
Addiction.
 |
| Example of a tasty, tasty coffee in case you've never seen one. |
Yesterday a horror crept over me akin
to that time I vomited red wine in the toilets of a friends wedding after eating field mushroom soup and maybe too much red wine. (None
went on my dress though, so I consider it a win for romance.)
Yesterday I missed my coffee.
There wasn't any great story behind it,
I just kind of forgot. Without a thought, ne'er a care in the world,
I forgot to grab a coffee. That's all. It wasn't a thing...well, I
didn't think it was a thing, but by 4.30 pm I had a headache behind
my eyes so intense that it began to make me think the leather jacket
I'd bought at a Korean op-shop had mould spores in it, causing a
sudden and definite case of medical facial rabies and that the rabid
face rabies had rabid rabie babies and had set up a kind of rabie
baby colony in my brain, is all. I was tired, fuzzy brained and then,
then someone suggested that it looked funny when I
tucked my collar into the top of my dress (I call it “the reverse
collar” and it's handy in a survival situation. I learnt it when I
played touch football and I realised the whole game would be a lot
less risky and involve way less tackling if people didn't have a flag
hanging out of the back of their shorts and the same goes for
collars. Collars are just little flags inviting a tackle from passing
touch-footballers.)
Anyway, so someone said: “Why is your
collar tucked into your dress?” and I said: “Why don't you just
kiss my arse while I rip off your face and feed it to magical
ponies”. At which point in the conversation we looked at each other
kind of wide eyed and both started slowly walking backwards, while
maintaining eye contact and that's the moment I realised: I need
coffee. I don't want it. I need it, before “the bad things”
start to happen. This was code red.
I had two options. I could replace my
coffee addiction with another addiction, potentially a better
addiction, like eating crayons, or crack cocaine; or I could simply
find some coffee and drink it. (Detoxing wasn't a realistic option,
because do not be ridiculous. What the crap are toxins anyway?
According to wiki they range from bee stings to botulism and I was
stung by a bee and I'm still alive, so I figure toxins: 0, me: 1.)
I set off to find coffee. I say “set
off” like I strolled out of the hotel casually, in a light summer
dress, while humming “That's how you know” from Disney's
“Enchanted”, my hair shimmering in the Korean sun. In the happy
version of the story I stopped and kissed a Korean soldier outside a
temple and then realised it was a statue and then I ran away because
maybe I just fell in love/lust with a statue and I can't handle the
depth of that. No. It actually* went more like this: (possibly
completely exaggerated*) I ran out of the hotel, barely wearing
pants, maybe pants made of ground mulch and a shirt arranged by wild
squirrels. While I'm arranging pants made of ground mulch I think
“Mulch. Mulch looks a lot like coffee grounds” and then in
desperation I put a bit of mulch in my mouth, realise it tastes like
Starbucks coffee so I spit it out and run down the road
screaming: “GIVE ME COFFEE KOREA, OR I WILL NUKE YOU!!” and then
I remember that no one is going to respond to my veiled threat
because they live with the threat of nuclear warfare on a daily basis from crazed psychopaths who, lezbe honest Kim Jong-un you've probably not had enough of your morning Java Juice, so instead I scream: “GIVE ME COFFEE
KOREA, OR I WILL CRY AT YOU, I WILL DO IT”, because that is practically the worse
thing you can do here.
I'm not much of a public crier, it
ne'er happens (that's the second use of ne'er). In fact I can
probably count the amount of public cries on one hand. There was the
time I had a tickle in my throat on the bus on the way home from
school and went so red and watery eyed that I looked like a pissed
1970's football referee. I also tend to cry when I'm running on the
treadmill and a really sad movie like Iron Lady is playing and Meryl
Streep says something, and it makes you realise that even people with
bucked teeth can be deep and deeply vulnerable and then you
completely lose it and remember that running makes you surprisingly
emotional. (I know, I've talked about that before, but it's really,
really true).
Anyway, so I'm running down the street
crying, wearing mulch pants and I find a little coffee vendor. Thank
you Jesus! He hands over a small cup full of what can best be
described in scientific terms as “brown”. Shaking, I hurriedly
take a sip and then promptly spit it out and yell at little Korean
coffee vendor: “Was that filtered through a donkey's sphincter?”,
but he doesn’t understand my impeccable Korean insult, because it's
lost in translation because I spoke English, and then to add insult
to injury he offers me sugar. SUGAR?!! At which point I go all steely
and quiet and look him dead in the eye and say slowly in a
Korean-English accent: “I live in Melbun for two year, do not
insul(t) me again, or else...” and then I can't think of what to
say next, so I just say: “or ...” and then I crush the tiny paper
cup in front of his face and put it in the non-recycle bin, because I
was just that crazy.
At this point I become a little
delirious. I pass a small child on a park swing, he gets excited and
wants to practice his English, so he waves and says: “Hello” and
I yell back: “DON'T be ridiculous!!!!” while I continue running,
losing mulch segments thick and fast.
And then I see it...
It's a little coffee bar, it's made of
65% wood panels and manned by a gentleman with semi-ironic facial
hair and rolled up shirt sleeves. Could this be it? I could hardly
dare to hope. I had suffered too much disapointment too early on and
was too weak. Additionally I was starting to lose mulch off my legs
and it looked like rain (which is not great in a mulch-trouser
situation). I stumble in, hardly able to form words.
“La...tte...single shot...like a
bullet … from a sweet-ground heaven”.
The Korean barrista looks at me and
says: “Hot?”
I make myself as tall and commanding
and slightly seductive as I can, lean across the bar, slam down
5,000won and say: “burn it if you have to, just give it to me
quick”.
And then it arrived.
It smelt sweet, like a dream. It tasted
smooth, like hair gel and was better than the time I discovered where
my mum “hid” the top-deck chocolate. I drank it down and the
whole world smiled and was beautiful again. I looked at the Barista
and thanked him. He said “enjoy” in broken English. I said: “I
would like to Marry You and play Bruno Mars at the wedding” and he laughed, but I was deadly serious
and that's when I realised the real depth of my addiction.
You see Farely, I used to have a long
and interesting list of requirements in a life partner. For example:
must look like Ryan Gosling, can grill pineapple, plays nicely with
others, likes to laugh at, with and around me, but now, my list has
been reduced to: can make coffee.
What had happened? I am in serious
danger of ending up with some Barissta-husband who is making coffee to pay
for his eye-lash collection.
Soooooooo... I've realised that maybe I
need to try this “detox” thing.
It will be hard.
It'll possibly involve a couple of
sacrifices, but...you know... I will find new friends... friends who
don't drink coffee... I can drink tea...or maybe Chai...I like
Chai... I can have white teeth, like small children do... and will
lose those cute little bags under my eyes...I'll miss those damn
little bags. I could have a hot cows
milk...but that might be too close...too tempting, no, I must go cold
Turkey.
I'll miss you coffee.
Who am I kidding?!
So what I'm saying is, Farley, you hold
onto those little lollies. You hold on to them real tight and don't
let go.
I love you coffee. Never leave me
again.
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