Sunday, September 26, 2004
Caffeine is the New Booze
One of our favorite recurring plotlines here at the blog goes something like this: it's a Friday night/formal occasion/church bake sale and Jay has something/many somethings to drink, resulting in an inappropriate outburst/uncalled for disrobing/five-state murder spree. It's a pretty simple formula, really, but it works. You take an insecure, verbose lightweight and add a fifth of vodka, and voila, comic gold.
(We also have a long-running plotline concerning the parentage of Monique's baby, but that's a whole other story.)
But thanks to Frank the Parasite, I am on medication all week that will not allow me to drink without major and immediate vomitage. A bummer, to be sure, but I figured it would allow me to get back in touch with my functional, non-drinking personality.
(And now a brief but necessary digression to note that Frank the Parasite is NOT named after Frank My Neighborhood Panhandler from an earlier episode of the blog. Real-life Frank is so much more than a parasite to me. He's also a person I fear will kill me, and of course my secret lover. I am his anchor, and he is my wings. Now back to the truly compelling narrative.)
I have now discovered, however, that large amounts of caffeine can make me every bit as socially inappropriate as booze. After a couple of Red Bulls and some Coke (the kind that comes out your nose when your friend Stacy makes you laugh, not the Olsen up-the-nose variety) last night I was bouncing off the walls. I read whole portions of the Quiet Times Bible out loud in a vaguely Irish accent. I ate half a box of goldfish crackers, despite not liking goldfish crackers. I called every name in my phone book in sequence.
Clearly, I need to be stopped. People don't go to the Promises Center for caffeine rehab, do they? Because I really feel like Courtney Love and I could be friends.
One of our favorite recurring plotlines here at the blog goes something like this: it's a Friday night/formal occasion/church bake sale and Jay has something/many somethings to drink, resulting in an inappropriate outburst/uncalled for disrobing/five-state murder spree. It's a pretty simple formula, really, but it works. You take an insecure, verbose lightweight and add a fifth of vodka, and voila, comic gold.
(We also have a long-running plotline concerning the parentage of Monique's baby, but that's a whole other story.)
But thanks to Frank the Parasite, I am on medication all week that will not allow me to drink without major and immediate vomitage. A bummer, to be sure, but I figured it would allow me to get back in touch with my functional, non-drinking personality.
(And now a brief but necessary digression to note that Frank the Parasite is NOT named after Frank My Neighborhood Panhandler from an earlier episode of the blog. Real-life Frank is so much more than a parasite to me. He's also a person I fear will kill me, and of course my secret lover. I am his anchor, and he is my wings. Now back to the truly compelling narrative.)
I have now discovered, however, that large amounts of caffeine can make me every bit as socially inappropriate as booze. After a couple of Red Bulls and some Coke (the kind that comes out your nose when your friend Stacy makes you laugh, not the Olsen up-the-nose variety) last night I was bouncing off the walls. I read whole portions of the Quiet Times Bible out loud in a vaguely Irish accent. I ate half a box of goldfish crackers, despite not liking goldfish crackers. I called every name in my phone book in sequence.
Clearly, I need to be stopped. People don't go to the Promises Center for caffeine rehab, do they? Because I really feel like Courtney Love and I could be friends.
