"My Morning Mocha," or "The Curious Case of the Coffee Craze"

I was debating whether or not to get a mocha this morning, but then I suddenly got the feeling of "Heck with it, I'm getting a mocha!" So I walked over to the bottleshop at 9:37 in order to get a mocha. I checked the time to see how long it would take for me to get back to my office; I wanted it to be under 5 minutes.

As I entered the bottleshop, the smell of freshly ground espresso beans wafted into my nostrils, exciting me all the more, for my tongue would soon touch these tasty molecules.The break room with the espresso machine is right near the bottleshop's conference room, so I walked through that room to get there, and noticed the projector was on and the screen said "Shutting Down." I figured someone had just finished a meeting, and went to fill my mug. I put a squirt of the chocolate sauce into my mug, making sure that I pushed the nozzle all the way down, to get the full ounce of flavor. I then nuzzled my cup under the spout and began to wonder if I actually wanted a cappucino. I read the cappucino instructions, and realized that it does not have chocolate sauce, so I decided I had better go with my original plan, and chose mocha. While I calmly waited for the coffee machine to fill my cold cup with caffeine caliente, Cory came in and we made conversation about how cool the capable machine could be.

After my mocha was finished we both walked through the conference room again, when he mentioned "It's done this twice now," regarding the conference computer shutting down. I said "Oh yeah, this latest batch of updates had all the computers rebooting a couple of times. On Thursday, mine was taking a while, so I just came to get some coffee. I can wait, though, to make sure it goes through." We talked about his broken laptop, and what might be the best method of fixing or replacing it. He wasn't sure if netbooks have CD drives, so I mentioned that even if they don't, there is software that can mimic a CD drive if needed. José walks through, complaining that his mocha will undo the work of biking in today.

The conference computer booted, and Cory logged in. He opened up a video file that he planned on playing at his meeting, starting at 10:00. The file opened, a moving image appeared on-screen, and the cacophony of crashing bottles that is ever-present in the bottleshop blared through the conference speakers. Then, nothing. Black. What happened? Had he stopped the video because it was so loud? Someone walks by, headed to the espresso machine.

Then the Dell logo flashed into focus. The computer had rebooted. "Good thing I'm here," I joked. We let the OS boot again, and he mentioned that the only program that seemed to work with those files is Quicktime, and WMP always plays the video sideways. Since time was ticking down 'til his meeting started, I decided I had better install Quicktime posthaste. Hunter and Al mosey on through, talking about how nice it is to take a break to walk out to the bottleshop for an espresso.

Quickly I opened the relevant website and clicked the Download link. 350 KB/s. Really? It was going to take two minutes to download a few MB file? So be it. Ken uses the side door, and informs people that this machine makes Americano as well.

Finally, the file was downloaded! I typed in my administrator password so that it could install. Someone accidentally cuts in line, arousing a flurry of complaints from the caffeine-starved office workers.

It looked like it was working, then it asked for my password again. Abnormal, but nothing to worry about. Another minute, and it's done! Tyler mentions that the machine went through eight gallons of milk before 1:00 last week.

Quicktime had installed. The video worked, and wasn't sideways when it played. It's a good thing, too, because several people had already showed up for the meeting. "Alright, Cory, looks like it's working, so I'll see you later." "Thanks, Doug." I look down at my mug, and it's empty.

And then...

For the ninth time that day, the doorbell rang, bringing with it the expectations that always accompany a visitor to the asylum. But no one, oh yes none, knew its extent.

Escape

The truth is that the little animals couldn't run fast enough to escape their own minds, however weak they really were in comparison. They sprinted, O yes, they sprinted, and even jumped up trees, then from branch to branch, tree to tree, deftly dodging thought and idea as they tried to plan an escape but couldn't, their thoughts already occupied with attackers. Instead their only escape was through instinct; they were reduced to mere shadows of what they had become, and their abilities were now useless and all they could do was run.

Someone Wasn't Listening

As you can see, the children who have been betrayed are oblivious to the glory which has been produced by this betrayal, and though it is difficult to not pity them, I feel such a great remorse that I believe it to be not true, but artificially created for the sake of promoting their well-being, even in the present circumstance in which I know them not.

What Would Life Be Worth

if you didn't die a little every day?

Life's Tricks

Surreal as it was, he knew he had to go. Waking up on a stranger's couch is something that either reminds you of the night before, or of your own mortality. It really depends on what you drank before finding yourself there. But he found his keys, found the bathroom, then found his car. Work. At 10. That's why he left this house at 8, waving to the stranger at the top of the stairs as he left. On his way home, he realized that, not knowing when he fell asleep, he might still be too affected to drive. But it didn't feel like it. He'd be fine. He thought he should feel tired, as he usually did, but he was alert, if not refreshed. From there, his day transformed into what could be considered normal, although, once in a while, he would look down at himself and realize that he was never really there.

Premature Exit

As he stood with a look of nonchalance carved into his face, they began to realize he was serious. Some members of the audience began to smile; some began to despair. Most stood up and left, until less than a dozen remained to see the spectacle. He knew they would love it, but perhaps everyone would have, if only they had opened themselves up to it. As I left the building, I heard him calling out to them one by one to come up onto the stage. I suppose my cab driver was no better then he could have been.

He Will Play Chess.

His ringtone was the Imperial March, and it will forever play in my head, even now that he is so far away in the land of his home, where he learned the alphabet and how to climb and how to fall. This stuff made him happy and he wanted to do these many things at once, but it is only so much that one mind can handle, and one body is less capable still. Please forgive his mortality.

Well, it's Tomato!

For seventeen long years his salads had been filled with tomatoes, and yet when he saw them his heart felt a longing the likes of which he had never felt before, and it stretched from his knees to his elbows because he is symmetric like that, and the redness of the fruit caused him pains of the throat, but his death came swiftly and with no regret.

Stars and Trucks

Looking up from the bed of the pickup, he could see Cassiopeia. Even in his drunken state, she shone brightly in the sky. He tried to tell his fellow truck bed passengers but they would have none of it. He was smashed up against the cab, finding out with every bump that he wasn't as limber as he used to be. Suddenly, in a flash of sobriety, he realized what he was doing. He felt exposed and vulnerable. His friend said that he could see people watching them as they rode by. These people didn't care, but what if they did? They could be arrested, couldn't they? Riding through downtown crouched in the bed of a pickup must have consequences. But then they arrived at home, free and clear, with only the memory.

It started at the end.

There was once a rare genius, with one severe physical defect: a lack of appendages. This was the worst in a long line of abnormalities present in his ancestors. The savant decided to have children despite the risk of them having deficiencies. The prodigy admittedly exacerbated the phylogeny of his progeny.

Awakedness

It was his thirst that first drew him upright in his bed, leading him to the kitchen. But once awake, his body no longer could accept the warm hug of slumber and instead lay motionless and alert above his blankets. He couldn't recall ever feeling this way before. He had only first gone to bed a few short hours ago, but here he was, in pitch dark, unable to return to that stress free land of fantasy that he could always count on before. He gazed about his obscured room, wishing he could at least admire the pictures on the wall, but it was in vain. He instead imagined them where they ought to be, since he had once stared at them for so many eternities as to memorize every detail they thought couldn't be seen.

His mind was like that, when alert. He had a heightened sense of the things around him, and he liked to think that it was a rare and important trait. Sometimes he memorized numbers for fun. Sometimes if he heard a phone number he would just store it away, even if he knew he would never use it. He could imagine that everything around him was not there, that it was all a number in his own mind, telling him what it should be, but what it really wasn't.

The pictures gradually came into view along his walls as the sun slowly kindled through his closed blinds. He imagined it like driving toward a castle; as you pass over one hill you can see the tallest tower, and then each hill you cross as you approach lets you see more and more of its walls, its buttresses, its gardens, its moat. Finally you reach the tourist parking lot and you are at the base of a castle, looking up, and are unable to see but what is directly in front of you.

This is how he looked at the pictures. Now that the sun was bright enough for him to confirm the details that he knew he remembered perfectly, he was reminded that he was awake. He once again rose from his bed into the lukewarm morning and set off for the water closet.

The mirror shocked him. His eye was much worse than he thought it would be. Eyelid, rather. Pink, swollen, inflamed, painful, ugly, dramatic, unexplainable, useless, watery. These are some of the more descriptive words that ran through his mind as he stared at it from every available angle. He never imagined it would get this bad. He would have to see a doctor. Maybe. First he would talk to his mother, because although she never had any medical training, she was more reliable than any doctor he had been to, especially since she knew when she was out of her league. She had seen it all in her many years as a socially participating human being, and had the experience to know what was an allergy and what was a spider bite.

But he could put that off until later. For now, there are papers to be written. He left the water closet and turned back into his room, illuminating it further with artificial light as he entered. He turned on his computer. It should have just been asleep, but apparently it had decided to take a different route in its path to unuse last night, and had shut itself down. He sat, silently cursing as it started from nothing. A thousand worlds could be created and blinked out of existence in the time it took for his machine to get from A to B.

He looked at his bulletin board and was reminded that his frozen yogurt coupon would soon expire. Why did he keep things like that? He would never use it, he knew. How embarrassing to go to a frozen yogurt shop alone and order two servings, just because the second one is free. Imagine the looks he would receive! He could already hear other customers whispering to each other as they sit with their dates, mutually enjoying their single serving fudge peanut butter swirl. He could feel his neck burn red as the man behind the counter overtly sneered. So vivid was the image in his mind that tears started to build in his left eye. He jerked his head away from the coupon, forcing himself to think about happier times.

The computer prompted for a password, but he knew he wasn't going to write now. How could he, with so much grief in the world? How could he complete another meaningless assignment put forth by the institute of higher learning, meant to form his mind in a way that they feel will benefit society? Who are they to know what is right for society, and more importantly, what is right for him? He wished his thoughts were revolutionary, but their haphazard argument is simply a patchwork of what other people have said and published. He is a collection of other minds. For all his effort in trying to be himself, he gains nothing. "Himself" changes with his proximity to different people. He wonders if it's the same for everyone.

Sitting in his chair in front of a blank screen six hours into the day is not how most of his mornings started. Today could be different; it could be the first day of the rest of his life. Or the differences could end when he gets in the shower. He looks down at his nearly nude body and wonders if he'll ever start the exercise plan he had laid out for himself. It was the beginning of summer, and he wanted to wake up every morning and ride his bicycle for at least an hour, burning away yesterday so he could start fresh every time the sun rose. Today wasn't the day, and after today was the weekend, so maybe he could get started next week. He knew he would never run out of excuses.

He spun his chair around. When did it lose the effect of making him the happiest child on earth? Maybe it was when people stopped spinning the chair for him. But maybe it was because this chair didn't have arms to hold on to. In any case, his dreary mood was not alleviated. He turned around, typed in his password, and began the rest of his day.

Three Flavors, Together but with Identity.

My roommate has soft serve hair. It comes in chocolate, vanilla, or swirl. Each flavor has its own curl from whence it pours, flowing like so much soft soft tasty treat of softy goodness and happy flavor, in its own type of beauty which is closer to standard than that of its frosty relative.

Ugh

The difficulties of this vida cannot cause me to succumb, for throughout, there will always be one light, and sometimes many, for my film is sensitive and detects the faintest happiness, the slimmest chance, the dying torch, causing me always to look forward instead of back, to know the future instead of remembering the past, and to feel the love instead of knowing the hate which has burned so deep, hidden so far down within that it cannot come up again without provocation; so far down that even my film cannot detect its light without being first admonished by the present.

Ask and Ye Shall Receive.

Q: "LOL!

This is so bizarre, and slightly disturbing. Where do you come up with these ideas? Jasson says you must be smoking something."

A: Well, I don't know, I just sit for a second and start with a word that's usually a preposition. By the time the word is typed onto the page, that sentence is already written in air, I just have to grab it and throw it onto the page. And then it's like I'm reading a story, just predicting the next line each time, and I'm usually right. Once in a while I have to backspace, but I really don't like to do that. In that fashion, a bizarre and slightly disturbing idea is come up with.

Once in a while I get an idea when I'm away from the computer. At that point, I run slash bike to a computer quickly so that my airy ideas can become pixelated and spread themselves onto your air.

Smoking is not involved :)

Lactic Acid

Since her arm was weaker than his, she let him hold the door open for more than mere minutes, extending his willing chivalry on into the night; and such a special night it was, for there was about to be a ceremony to crown the new president of the group of students (who refused to call themselves a club) that like to create and learn, adding to and expounding upon the cultures that already existed in their domain; and yes, his arm would weaken and ache, but he would not flinch in his duty, even if it was an arbitrary one, for that is the law of propriety.

Rocks are Ouch

From his breast the badger flew, raving with the madness of a thousand wizards, the screams of a thousand kittens, and the valor of a thousand mighty ducks. Upon the badger's landing, the man saw that this is what he had produced in his desperate efforts for love and knew that it could not be continued, for what would he produce next? A lamprey of the spirit? A dragon that consumes souls? Even a devil that digests the very planets in his path? No. This would stop now, with the badger. And the man picked himself up off the rocks and ran toward it, loving it harder and harder with each step. Still dazed, the badger frantically ran in circles, learning to exist when it never had before. It was just beginning to leap from a rock when the man impaled himself upon its sharp skull. The badger's gullible body would have been crushed were it not for the love that absorbed it. Alas, the rock beneath it was not chaste, and had been hardened by years of unloving life. It pierced the man's heart, where the badger now once again lived and died. That day was the first of many such events, and also the greatest of them. For no man would ever again produce such a creature; and no creature would ever again produce such a man.

i am so young

i just went to shave

and i looked at my face

my hair is mussed from sleeping and not showering

and i saw myself in my face

just as i have always been

and i missed me

i wished i was who i am

but that i can never be.

only time will tell

i want to be famous

and have a famous girlfriend

and a famous marriage

and famous bebbies.

i don't know how to be famous
but i do want to be an actor
and a writer
and a director
and a producer
and a mathematician
and a physicist.

i would make movies about things i discovered in space
and about my life as a mathematician, alone only with my pencils and equations
and about the new theories and things that prove they are true
and maybe i would create a camera that could see the theories that are so small.

the world has much things

but it is so small in the universe
but it still is big for us and it has many careers
and toys
and methods
and widgets
and girls
and boys
and lives.

i want to scream
and laugh
and cry
and run
and sit still
and finish my coffee
but i'm pretty sure it causes these thoughts
which is on second thought why i should finish it.

there is too much to learn
and i dont know what to do when
so i follow the current path
and hope it will all get done one day.

Alliteration of the 23rd Variety

Whiskey's wrath wraps around writhing wretches, warring with wild wheat and whittling women with wicked wisdom.