It smells so good, but I know it's too hot - it's always the way. That tantalising smell of fresh coffee, it ensnares the victim into having the first sip at an offensive temperature, and it's always a regret. Shit! it's still too hot. I knew it would be and yet here I am with a prickly tongue, cursing the coffee for being too hot, not myself for drinking it too soon. How perfectly illogical: it is not the coffee's fault.
Today, however, I feel like everything is not my fault. Two weeks of going cold-turkey into happiness and I've cracked. Today's a blue day, a day to indulge in sorrow, a day to pass the time stewing in self-pity as a homeless person might wallow in their own filth - yet I revel in this. As far as my vices, and dare I say addictions go (caffeine, tobacco, the student drinking schedule) my substance of choice is melancholy. I'd like to say that I pull it off in Byronic style, with the makings of a 21st century Romantic, but it's highly more likely that I'm just a hormonally fucked girl trying to put an intellectual spin on a more universal problem. None-the-less, to use that clichéd brat's expression, the world is send against me today; but I don't really feel like sharing why, I feel it'll make you like me a little less.
My coffee's run out now. Lara hasn't called. There's still an hour to kill. One hour. Oh, the things that can be achieved in an hour: ten miles running (if you're quick); the conception of a child (if you're lucky, or unlucky); the perfect coffee-date (if it exists); and, most importantly, listen to the entire of Elvis's Greatest Hits...but I'm sitting here, on an almost comfortable sofa, scrawling idol thoughts onto paper and contemplating the taste of stale coffee in my mouth.
Meanwhile, Charlotte's pouring over a copy of Glamour Magazine and absent-mindedly playing with her chipped-purple finger nails - she's utterly engrossed in the rag, oblivious to the fact that the words flowing onto this page concern her. Is that rude? Is it fair to write about someone without their permission, or even their knowledge - would you mind? I don't know if I would. I suppose it would depend on what they were writing about me; at best I suppose could get "the girl with friendly face and fabulous coat" (for it is a great coat) but at the worse - God, does it even bear thinking about? No. No, Not on a blue day. I think that's fair enough, I've shared my various vices with you so I can withhold information regarding the less attractive sides of my appearance, and indeed what cast the rain-cloud over this day: at least for the time being.
