Yesterday, I finished the last day of the summer class that I teach at UMass Boston. I am celebrating as only I, CaffDouche, can. Which is to say I’m currently eating Chez-Its, sipping directly from a 2 Liter of Pepsi Max, and playing Rise of the Tomb Raider after a long, under-caffeinated day. It’s a gratifying sensation to know that I’m done lesson planning (but not done working, this prole sallies forth like most others) for the summer. Six-weeks of being able to just beat that meat and game that game and read that comic without having to withdraw into pedagogical tomfoolery. But it’s also a bit melancholic, as six-weeks starts off sounding wonderful and slowly metamorphosizes into feeling interminable. These days, it feels culturally anathema to say you like your job. I do, though. Guilty. It’s rewarding, challenging, stimulating, and as dynamic as it gets.

I must not cop to that, though.

I’ll be ousted.

From my Millennial Generation, where self-loathing memes, anxiety, and a general pall seem to engulf the various news-feeds anyone internet-addicted and my age frequent.

Certainly, I understand the occasional bout of despair. The Earth is melting, when it’s not busy devolving into a rotting garbage heap. The United States’ election is being decided between a Crook and a Despot. We’re still not on Mars, we’re still fighting over oil and Sky People. So. Yeah. Certainly, I understand the occasional bout of despair.

But it’s exhausting man! And I won’t stand for it. Not today! Today, being the first day of my six-week break from wearing pants (I’ll be wearing shorts, but fuck pants until September 6). Not today! Being Saturday, the first day of my glorious weekend. Not today! Why, instead of leaning into the perpetual pall of misery and malaise, we could all embrace the glory of Weekend Open Bar!

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It’s been a week since I reappeared on the deck of the ship, smiling through the sludge I’d been wading in for far too long.

I was worried about the transition. Captain Pow had every right to be salty, seeing as I’d disappeared without any warning.  Piloting this old war-bird with even the most seasoned of navigators can be a goddamn nightmare, so my absence certainly didn’t help.Whereas I’d anticipated being on the receiving end of a Big-Brother Bitch-Slap, he greeted me with open arms.

The stalwart captain welcoming his prodigal brother.

Since then, the pop-culture seas have been kind to me, revitalizing me after an extended absence. My sealegs are strong, helping me regain my strength through the wonder of muscle memory. And still, I’ve yet to completely return to form. I’m still suffering the residual effects of being lost in that Modern-Life Maelstrom.

Every other nite, my crewmates find me sleep-screaming about memos to read and projects to complete and bills to pay and other such nonsense that crushes spirits.

So how’m I going to overcome my infected blood? How do I enjoy the ride when I know the high Highs are always curbed by low Lows? Well, I’m goin’ to keep readin’ the maps and chartin’ the stars. I’m going to breathe deep the life-giving air found these glorious, treacherous, horrifyingly wondrous astral-seas. I’m goin’ to suck the pulp until its dried and withered and I choke to death on the juice, clutching my throat and smiling all the way.

What the fuck is this shit?! I came across it today at my local 7-Eleven. I was heading for some sort of caffeinated beverage to get my synapses lubricated. Because, let me tell you something, my nickname on this site isn’t lying. I’m truly caffeine powered. Not like giggles and haha. I’m a fucking addict. If you spend more than three hours with me, you’ll see me polish off something like thirty ounces of caffeinated bliss. My friend Tom came over a couple of weeks ago to watch LOST, and he was like, you know what’s amazing? You’ve drank three Diet Mountain Dews since I was here.

And I was like, you know how we do.

I can’t even begin to experience higher brain function until I’ve serviced Lord Caffeine. Ridin’ the dragon.

So yeah, I saw this shit today at 7-Eleven, and I was like, what the fuck? I looked all around it, demanding an explanation. Pepsi Max Cease Fire. It’s Pepsi Max with a hint of lime. But instead of calling it something like Pepsi Max Delicious Lime, they had to make it sound masculine. CEASE FIRE. Also, it’s some sort of crossover with a Doritos brand Pepsi Co. is introducing or some shit. I was intrigued though. I mean, when you pound as much caffeine as I do, you’re looking for something new.

I pounded it and went about my day, and wasn’t reminded of it until Pepsibones and I went to get comic books. It was sitting there on my car floor, abused and alone and left for dead after I had sucked all the life out of it. I explained it to him, and he was like, how did it taste?

And I didn’t even know. It was at that moment, and I told him this, that I realized my tongue only tastes two things anymore: Caffeine Filled, and Not Caffeinated. Anything other sensations are beautiful subtleties that I lost to the demon I’m possessed by a long, long time ago.

Unless it’s the Purple Poison. Then we’re talkin.