To all the insomniac lesbian in the world I give you this random thought at 2:46 a.m. May we all find solace in our weaknesses.
A great Ryerson RTA student once said: “sometimes I wish caffeine were a woman ‘cause then I’d be having sex every night.” After reading this I realized that, more specifically, coffee is a woman, well at least as close as a comparison as you can get. Both are hot, smooth, and warm on your lips, leaving humming chord strung through your body. Nothing, and I mean nothing, can keep me up for forty-eight hours and leave me forging forward like a freight train, better than two days in bed gazing into the deep pools of a luscious full-bodied woman. The bitter sting of a lover scorned can leave you burned and unable to taste the delectable sweetness in the undertones of her subtleties. Women, like coffee, come dark-roasted, finely-ground, hinted with Irish or French vanilla and in any fine array of exotic blends.
Craving either can cause an unquenchable thirst for bodily tingles in the after buzz. When my hands shake for more stimuli and my heart throbs while blood rushes to the limits of my confines, I reach out for the object of my lust, my anger, my love. As I drink back a liquid that should surely be remembered as that of all Gods, I find ecstasy in the means to my end. Sleep is obsolete, and tiring is out of the question as I risk for more.
Nighty night sleep tight, hopefully now that the pot’s empty, there’s someone close to bite.