You say black tea, I say crack tea.

At 2:00 this afternoon, when my regular post-lunch droopiness was compounded by the fatigue resulting from my body's pathetic attempts to keep core temperature at a survivable level against the odds of my office's goddamn building manager and his goddamn trigger-happy a.c. levels as soon as it turns to goddamn June, I broke down and had a mug of tea. My fleece blanket wasn't cutting it, and my co worker and I had already tripped the fuse with our dueling space heaters (I am not shitting you) so I had no option but to turn to the kettle, and oh; it was glorious. So warm and bitter, orange pekoe rushed to my numb fingers and sad toes and said "Hey, I'm here. It's ok. Amputation has been averted." I was grateful. Then I was wired. Here's the thing: I quit caffeine 4 months ago. I am friggin buzzing. Hence the sentences longer and more complicated than Tyra Bank's musings on the importance of a model's neck. You can't spell "opiate" without "OP," which is also known as ORANGE PEKOE.

Yeah, I'm going to crash.