Besides a breakdancing heart, the worst thing that happens during a caffeine overdose is your thoughts sprint around the inner rim of your head in spandex. They drink Gatorade and piss on the side of your braincase. This—the intracranial hustle—is a mental disorder in the DSM-V, right next to heroin addiction.
For me, the shit hit the French press when I was drinking five cups of bean spunk a day. This was two weeks ago. My neurons were writing dirty little poems to each other. I was krumping to the beat of Mr. Coffee. It was not pretty.
The hardest part was probably the feeling of horizontal lines. Let me explain myself. The hardest part was probably the feeling of horizontal lines. The hardest part was probably the feeling of horizontal lines. The hardest part was probably the feeling of horizontal lines.
See: Caffeine jacks your neurons. This is probably the most important thing for you to understand—the total jacking of the neurons by that which is called caffeine. I mean, imagine for a hot sec that you’re a neuron. You have this tight little nucleus and your legs are dendrites. There is a spark plug coming out of your belly and it’s wrapped in an alpaca blanket.
Dude floats up to you through the brain mist. Think bro, think Brazil, think shade-grown and ethically sourced. He’s got two horns coming out of his head, and they are oxygen atoms. He hands you a drink.
You go weak at the dendrites.
“But I was waiting for this other guy, this sleepy guy,” you say.
You mean adenosine (uh-DEN-uh-son), another organic compound I’m going to anthropomorphize here, in case you don’t follow. Adenosine is mostly hydroxide. He’s nice and he works at a non-profit, and when he initiates foreplay you fall asleep immediately. You love him just the same.
“Yeah, that’s me for sure,” says coffee.
WINK-WINK-BURP-WINK-BUZZ-BUZZ-ATTACK-ATTACK and he’s on you, in you, that cup of mickey, pulling covalent bonds with your sleep receivers. He just looked so much like sleep (to you, a neuron). Mountain-grown impersonation. Shade-grown sublimation. Brown baby beans keep playing with your heart.
When I was little my dad drank coffee from a thirty-ounce plastic 7-Eleven mug. He kept it on a shelf above the kitchen sink and drank two mugfuls a day. One day there was a mouse in our house and my dad killed it with my plastic lightsaber. He chased the mouse around my room and stained the saber with its blood.
My mom tried to clean the mouse blood from the light shaft. I don’t think she ever did.
So, last Sunday, when I realized I was living my life in hyperbole, I quit. Quit paying money for dirty hot water, quit burning my tongue, quit cleaning the stains in the bottom of my mug. I was tired. I bought some white tea. Tucked my neurons into twin beds. Had a headache for eight days. I was calm. I was anti-calm. I know what I mean. I always know what I mean all the time.
My dad’s electrocardiogram looks like bad Art Deco. When I’m home for the holidays, I drive him to his blackjack games and then I drive him to the cardiologist. He has a pacemaker now. He hasn’t touched a lightsaber in years.
What I’m saying, my friend. What I’m saying is. What I’m saying is. What I’m.
What I’m saying is don’t drink coffee unless you are: (1) in a minimum-security prison and have to Appear On Top Of Things, (2) in a womb and have to GTFO, or (3) it is your last day on Earth and you’ve got to hitch a ride to heaven in one drink.