My name is Richard and I am a coffee prostitute, I have been through hell and I want to tell my story..
I recently switched allegiances and started drinking only tea, this was no easy decision as prior to this I was a coffee whore, a little bitch that stood around on street corners first thing in the morning sucking off my roasted bean pimp until it shot its load of espresso down my frantic guzzling whore hole (mouth). I couldn't start my day without at least 3 coffees. I'd queue at my companies £6000 coffee machine, fingers clicking, leg shaking and a mini stroky eye, like it was some sort of caffeine based drop in center. My day would literally be a living hell without several cups of black crack. The sad tale unfolds below, starting with my old work building and its scatterings of percolators, ending with a coffee machine so technical, I believed it was what had become of K.I.T.T from Knightrider.
Like any addiction, things gradually got worse, from the early days drinking up to 10 cups of thick syrup like percolated coffee and spending the afternoons rambling about playing elaborate psychological tricks on my old fat cunt boss, rambling about conspiracy theories, bizarre comedy ideas and spending the night wide awake, wider than Imogen Thomas' knees after a brief meeting with a footballer, or someone with some sort of palpable wealth or fame. I weaned myself off this, with great difficulty mostly after realising my job was actually on the line, I was hyper and although people around my were generally laughing it did end up with a trip to a shrink (there was other stuff going on, but I was stuck for an excuse at work). So my cycle of caffeine dependency and insomnia was slowly driving me crazy and I was diagnosed with clinical depression. Obviously I don't think this was due to coffee per see but moreover the fact that composite lack of sleep had made me fancy the idea of putting a .357 magnum into my mouth like a summer lolly and blowing my brains all over a shoddily artexed ceiling like an upside down spilt trifle..
Years passed and I had a sensible approach to hot beverages, (and to clinical depression), I was a reasonably sane chap, bar a few door kicking Elton John tantrums at work and a visit to the nearest outside wall to head-butt it like woody woodpecker, and some screaming and shouting (usually C word based) before coming back to work tired and spent. The insomnia had never really passed but only eased, I saw it as a curse, for someone apparently depressed, and someone who by their own admission, hates probably about 60% of everything that comes with basic consciousness, I wasn't half awake lots. It was hellish. I'm 38 but my eyes have been open for longer than some 60 year olds. I also make that wierd groaning noise like a 60 year old when I bend over for the TV remote, or to let coffee smash my up the poop shoot.
Coffee and me were now having a healthy relationship, no more being shoved into the back of a Ford Focus for savage arse to mouth, it was more see you Wednesday, we'll watch a film, have a bite to eat and go home and make love (possibly with anal, If I'd had one cup too many). Coffee would fall asleep in my arms while I stayed awake and watched, the big smug bean cunt.
Then, my work place decided to get in a £6000 coffee machine, blue screens, led, messages, flashing lights, a welcome splash screen, numerous options and Italian drinks you had never heard of. My stable girlfriend coffee had put on a business suit and I could see her stocking and suspenders. She had gone from the girl next door to the boardroom whore, and she wanted me to press all her buttons. I couldn't resist her, I did her in all the positions, latte, mocha, double expresso, other names I cant remember if I'm honest, and it was amazing, the old me was back, crazy horse, talking the talk at work, 100mph of bullshit, the insomnia now relentless, and, as the drinks were milk based, I was more farty..
Soon after, and like having a slutty girlfriend, things started to get really dirty, perversion set in and it was at this point I went surf n turf on that bitch and created a drink that was so potent, that I could only name it a “fuckachino” this was a bed of double expresso, a strong mocha and topped off with more expresso, a hot liquid gang bang. One of these in the morning would leave you believing you could kill a bear, punch through a wall and have omnipotent free thought and were generally better than everyone else (like your coke-head mate at a party). You would look down on tea drinking bores from your milky steam cloud laughing at them, chatting crap about the weather, or last nights telly and maybe jazzing things up with a dull beige biscuit. The only thing appropriate to dunk in a fuckachino would a heroin needle, or a swan, or just generally something that wasn't OK to the normal boring tea drinker.
One day, I decided to have two fuckachino's, this was the crossing the streams in ghostbusters of hot drink consumption, and I sat there suddenly clutching my chest, my heart beating like Gary Glitters when he went to collect his PC. I called out to my colleague that I was having a heart attack and managed to waffle my way through a message for my son, which included for him to “avenge me”, what was he supposed to do?, destroy nestle and Kenco, poor little fucker. I then listed the songs that I wanted played at my funeral and stated the fact that I want to be buried and not cremated. This went on for the next hour, which was hell for me, but possibly quite irritating to the poor woman whose ears I were chewing off getting my death list done, I think by the time the feeling passed I was into the specifics of the sandwiches I wanted at the wake and a list of people who shouldn't be there as they were fuckers or cunts to me in life, but they still counted as mates to bump up the dwindling numbers.
It was at this point that I realised that things needed to change, my whorish beverage bitch was going to kill me (or at least make me feel like I was going to die) and I left her and made a date with tea, the innocent girl next door type, I loved it and I couldn't get enough of her. Things were going well but I've been back a few times and seen my coffee ex, things will never go back to how they were and I hope to one day settle down with tea and be happy with the walks in the country and couple of pints that she offers. I'll miss coffee, but she is a whore and I don't respect her.
Closing point: Why not just have both you silly greying beard non sleeping paunchy fucking shit gobbling arse cleft of a man (ape)?
Well, good question, and well put, to answer simply, sometimes you just have to pick a side in life, xbox or playstation, mum or dad, when they split up, Tottenham or arsenal?**
**XBOX, of course, Dads, they are generally more relaxed about life than mums, and finally I don't give a shit what team you support, football is essentially an over-bloated and ridiculous game which is generally only fanatically followed by gurning spouse beaters and general cretins
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