By John Mark Goforth
I’m sitting on my bed right now with my laptop resting on top of two stacked pillows. I have a large red blanket wrapped around my shoulders and a big cup of coffee between my crossed legs. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon and I am on my fifth cup of the day. That’s not that bad right? I’m starting to think I am pretty pathetic. In fact now that I look around my room I realize I am pathetic.
It’s messy and carpeted with laundry. Books lay scattered everywhere and numerous empty coffee cups have found a resting place on the books nearest my bed. That black liquid with a dose of cream has become my elixir, the very blood that pumps my heart. But despite my extreme consumption I am still tired. Always tired. So I make another pot, I drink another cup. I return to my bed and write away the day whilst sucking up every mind nourishing nutrient the coffee has to offer (if any) and then discarding the skeleton remains on yet another bedside book.
Despite the warmth of my drink I am still cold, so cold. Shivering in fact. Hence the blanket wrapped around my body. And with every cup I pray it makes me warmer, but I only end up colder. I could just take a hot shower. Or go for a run. Or attend a party. But no, I have my never ending supply of useless coffee. Coffee, coffee, coffee. Only coffee can do this to a man. That and a woman. I am still not quite sure which case is mine.