I Was Almost Certainly Drugged at Starbucks

More often than not, when I have coffee in the evening times it isn't so much a big deal. But tonight it seems to be a big deal. Kind of a lot bigger deal than I've ever been used to. Before I begin, I'd like to explain that I can't hardly stand it when I hear people talk about being hyper. So I'm going to not use that word. It's non-descriptive and really, really adolescent. What I am experiencing is not a basic case of hyperactivity. No. There are almost definitely drugs in my system. And for that I blame the shady girls behind the counter at Starbucks.

Think back to half an inch ago when I told you that coffee in the evening times isn't so much a big deal for me. Yeah, it's not. It rarely effects me with its intended affect (Right? Did I use those... was that accurate? Yeah, I don't know. I'll leave it.). But tonight is the lunar eclipse and I'm going, to quote Bono, "with or without you--with or without youuuoohhhh!" At first I thought I'd just go to bed earlier than usual, set my alarm, drive to a cemetery and try not to inadvertandly stay there until the sun comes up. But then I said, "Fuck it. I'ma stay up." Because I don't have to be to work until noon and staying up until nearly three on a Monday night is probably the most champion use of my time. So the lovely and talented Sarah and I went to Sbux (which is probably the baddest of ass ways to reference the universe's most popular coffee shop--something I promise to never do again) and I said, "I'd like a venti Sumatra with two shots of espresso. And some vanilla because I'm a pansy." You see, I added the extra shots to compensate for the made-up caffeine-doesn't-really-affect-me-like-it-should idea that I had. And she said "we only serve Sumatra in the morning but we have Pike's Peak." And I said, "Do me." If you bet five dollars that "do me" was only a proposition for sex, you'd be that many dollars poorer because apparently it is also code for "There are cops outside. My beverage will keep your amphetamine based drugs safe." I should have known those girls were bad news when we walked in and I overheard their conversation about how "kids require certain boundaries." Who talks like that? Drug peddlers. That's who.

Everything was fine and cozy until Sarah and I found our way to the Christmas department of our most local Target. Sarah was comparison shopping mostly-plastic pine trees. I glanced over at her in what appeared to be a forest. She looked up at me and seemed mildly concerned. I looked at her and saw her in what my mind had decided to accept as Narnia. "Sarah," I said, trying to remain calm, "I... I can feel it." I started to panic, but I wanted to appear in control. Let the record show that there's very little that looks less in control of one's self than desperate attempts to appear in control. You become overly aware of the relationship between your feet and knees and start walking very deliberately and nodding enthusiastically to things that people are saying so as to appear focused on the conversation at hand but really you're just hoping that no one thinks that you're too broken to be in public even though you know that even on your best day you're probably barely clearing that bar.

I wanted to buy plain, brown wrapping paper. I even found some for the low-low price of only $2.50 but somehow I talked myself out of it even though I really, really wanted it and will just go on another search tomorrow to find plain, brown wrapping paper. Instead I bought a box of Swedish fish. Because what I need in this equation--just a little more candy and a little less of what is actually on my shopping list. Do not be mistaken, that didn't happen because I was secretly drugged. That happened because of the kind of person that I am. For example: I'll crave chocolate chip cookies. I'll have everything to make them except for, say, butter. I'll wait a whole week for a new paycheck to come and, in the meantime, think of all of the other things that I could use butter for. Butter on toast. Butter on baked potatoes. Butter on spoons. X is the limit! (In this scenario X is representative of the number of things that butter could actually be used for). I will get so excited about potentially having butter in my life. Pay day comes and now I finally have some fun money and I say "I'ma getchoo, Buttah!" Then I go to Walmart and see that butter costs $3.26 a pound and then I think about how that's a lot of dollars and does a person really need a whole pound of butter? I forget all of the things that butter can do and I think "I'm not spending nearly $4." It's not that I don't believe that butter is worth it. It's not that I even believe that $4 (which is an exaggeration anyway) could go much further elsewhere. It's more like I'd rather buy 4 $1 items. So I throw reason to the wind and walk out of there with a bag of apples. Apples, while delicious, are nothing like butter.

It's been a few hours but I'm beginning to crash. Only a little over an hour left to go before I was planning to leave but I can feel myself hurling down towards Earth at an alarming rate. I'm scared, Jack. I don't think that there were really drugs in my coffee. I think I just ordered an unreasonable cup of coffee with extra coffee thrown in for good measure and it did exactly what it was designed to do which was make me high.

See that picture at the top. This was taken towards the plateau of my mania. I'd gotten home and wanted to be wearing not-jeans. If you're like me, you take your jeans off as soon as you're no longer near other people. Because who in their right mind would spend any amount of time trapped inside of denim? I walked into my bedroom where I saw that my electric blanket was not yet turned on. So I turned it on and while I was fishing around under the bed for the controls I found my slippers--which are awesome. I put them on and then forgot why I was back there in the first place. Upon passing the bathroom on my way back to the living room (which is where one goes to regroup) I decided to pee, for good measure. In washing my hands I decided also to wash my face. Before I can wash my face, I have to pull all of the hair back or else they get wet and it's a huge mess. So I used this handy scarf and in no time I'd realized that i'd just done my hair like Rosie the Riveter or Aunt Jemima or some other fictional, head-wrap wearing, animated, pop-culture icon. So I took a picture of it. I went to go find my cat, to show her. Kiki was, and remains even still, completely uninterested. I post this picture to alert you to the fact that it's now nearly two hours later and I'm still wearing jeans and my face is unwashed. Go, me.

I know you're reading this, Lorenzo.

All of my love (and a portion of my earnings from tips if you work it right),

Libby Marie