I think the barista is trying to kill me. Or poison me. Or drug me with the coffee she makes.
Today’s the first time since a month ago that I am facing dryness in writing. God damn it. I thought that’d never happen after all the eccentric evolution that had taken place in my mind, which successfully made me a lunatic. Yet, 30 minutes ago, I was writing, and deleting, coupled with the acts of staring into this blank screen waiting for the light bulbs that would miraculously light up in my mind.
Now, after 30 minutes of comatose, and the visit of a doctor, nosey neighbours, 1 police dog, and 3 policemen, I’m here holding up my head writing down what I am suspecting. The police are leaving after issuing a warning to the person who called them as I am writing this sentence. Who called the police again?
The barista is trying to kill me. Here’s a little peek into my daily life, in order to show you the evidence I’ve gathered:
Every morning, I’ll send my kid to my mother-in-law, before going on my way to work. Along the way, I will pass by a coffeeshop selling my favourite breakfast and coffee. Now we’re talking about it. The next person behind the malicious act could be the breakfast guy.
Back to my story. So I’ll eat my breakfast, and have a cup of coffee before I carry on with my journey to office. It’s almost the same every morning, except today.
This morning, after leaving my kid with my half-mother, I walked a different route, and had breakfast at a different location. The food was different, so was the coffee. Then came the mind-block in the afternoon. Coincidence? I don’t think so.
I think they (the coffee barrister and the breakfast cook) are trying to kill me. You know how withdrawal symptoms are, right? They’ll usually start with mind confusion, and I think that was what I was suffering from earlier. It’s the first stage. I might have illusions tomorrow, and shivers on Friday. I’m sure. How else can we explain my sudden bout of mind blankness?
Here’s what I suspect. They have been drugging me. I don’t know who is, but I am certain it’s one of them. I think it’s the barista, because every morning before today, she’d have my coffee prepared before I walked to her counter. I didn’t even have to order. So it must be her.
Wait, it could be the cook also. I mean, even though he asked every time I visited him, he could be putting an act to cover up what he did. Guilty unless proven innocent.
It must be them. They want me to patronise them everyday, so that they will have daily earnings from me every morning at the same time. They must have been drugging me to make me return, and the moment I realize my day isn’t going to be the same without their food or coffee, I’ll have to go to them to get my fix the next day. I’m sure that’s their plan all along.
Andy Lawson is the average man on the street that you’ll not even trouble yourself looking at him if he passes by you. He’s sensitive to bullshit, and he hates mediocrity in most people.
He is the author of his self-published book: Facts and Fiction of Fengshui: Facts that Masters are NOT Telling You.
He doesn’t have Facebook or Twitter, because he hates to be associated with people who tend to be passive-aggressive online, but he does have a very limited set of vocabularies, terrible grammar, a twisted mind that makes himself God in his own twisted world and an ability to communicate with people who wish to be his friend.