Acerbic and foul are both misery and cold coffee. With their powers combined I am demolished. So much for a happy Friday. No, this is not a Haiku (just count the syllables, folks).
Our car is going through another phase of dysfunction and I'm wringing my fists at the sky as if the atmosphere, the spheres, or even space in general gives a damn. We're all alone I find as I recharge my failure of vehicle so that it will run long enough to provide me with a ride to the grocer for sustenance. More coffee? Sure.
I need to improve my planning skills and focus my forward-looking. As of now I'm running on a cognitive bias which denies me the wisdom to think on the possibilities of tomorrow. So that's why I'm damned?
Time to go fire up the car, with the aid of a 450 amp charging device on loan from my grandfather. Time to stand out in the unseasonal Spring-like weather of mid-January and attempt to think about the future. Time to finish this cup of black gunk so that its caffeine will fuel my efforts to achieve forward motion.
Red to positive, black to negative. And away I go!
That acrid taste of cold coffee is what fuels the creative spite. It gurgles in the belly and then sends the acid up to the central nervous system and gives rise to ideas that would probably be disregarded by most people with the conscience of the upwardly mobile masses. Make your trek in a hobbled chariot to the market, but don't sell away your indignation. Someday it will serve as material for your creative sewing machine as you piece together squares of a tapestry or quilt that will comfort you on nights colder than this.
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