thoughts on the morning

There's something about coffee that makes a day begin right. I crawled out of the QSFB (queen-sized fun bed) and the only thing I could think about was grinding some beans and brewing them up for a cup o' java to get my motor runnin'. As Anne Sexton said:

I'm the queen of this condition.
I'm an expert on making the trip
and now they say I'm an addict.
Now they ask why.
WHY!

Yeah - I may be addicted but it sho is fun.

I've been getting invites to another, separate game night with some folks I've met a handful of times at different places. The husband totally RAWKS, and the wife, well, she could use some Valium every day for about a decade and then come back to see me. I made the mistake of telling him (or her, I dunno who reads that email and it really super bugs me when two people use the same email address) that I don't play Magic the Gathering anymore so bummer to their Magic night I can't make it. Cause now they are changing that night to be only boardgames so that people who don't play Magic can come after all~! Jesus christ. It's no coincidence. Now I'll be a major lamer if I don't go play some Settlers of Catan or other card stuff. *shudder* with Her.

God - it was so funny on my last trip to Europe and I saw a Settlers game but it was in Dutch - and I tried to teach Henri, Vonai and Michiel how to play it - it's not like the game is so overly hard, but I hadn't played in a while and the damn thing was in a different language!! *HAH* We did okay - but after I got home and played here with Darth Moll and Cack and Stu I realized that I'd probably done more harm by adding too many complications - and now I need to go back to Nijkerk and play some more to get it straight. =D

Anyway I will post this entire poem because it's one that really spoke to me years ago. It's the Addict, by Anne Sexton.

Sleepmonger,
deathmonger,
with capsules in my palms each night,
eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottles
I make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.
I'm the queen of this condition.
I'm an expert on making the trip
and now they say I'm an addict.
Now they ask why.
Why!

Don't they know that I promised to die!
I'm keeping in practice.
I'm merely staying in shape.
The pills are a mother, but better,
every color and as good as sour balls.
I'm on a diet from death.

Yes, I admit
it has gotten to be a bit of a habit-
blows eight at a time, socked in the eye,
hauled away by the pink, the orange,
the green and the white goodnights.
I'm becoming something of a chemical
mixture.
that's it!
My supply
of tablets
has got to last for years and years.
I like them more than I like me.
It's a kind of marriage.
It's a kind of war where I plant bombs inside
of myself.
Yes
I try
to kill myself in small amounts,
an innocuous occupation.
Actually I'm hung up on it.
But remember I don't make too much noise.
And frankly no one has to lug me out
and I don't stand there in my winding sheet.
I'm a little buttercup in my yellow nightie
eating my eight loaves in a row
and in a certain order as in
the laying on of hands
or the black sacrament.
It's a ceremony
but like any other sport
it's full of rules.
It's like a musical tennis match where
my mouth keeps catching the ball.
Then I lie on my altar
elevated by the eight chemical kisses.
What a lay me down this is
with two pink, two orange,
two green, two white goodnights.
Fee-fi-fo-fum-
Now I'm borrowed.
Now I'm numb.