Inventor of Post-its wishes: Dear Evil Genie, Hi. Love your work. I’d like to be able to drink coffee after 5pm and not end up being up all night. Thanks and hope to hear from you soon!
The Evil Genie replies: When you arrive home from work at 5:32 pm on this lovely Monday and start brewing yourself some hazelnut coffee with almond milk, you have a faint belief that that you’ll still find yourself awake late into the night. Sure, you’ve seen me destroy countless lives, wreak havoc on world governments, and even eff ess up for the most powerful people in the world (celebrities), but this is coffee we’re talking about. Coffee.
So, after taking the first sip, you’re pretty surprised when you wake up 16 hours later, having passed out in your bed. How did you even get in here? Who put you in this nightgown? Do you even own a nightgown? You’re exceedingly late for work and hideously overtired. You throw on regular clothes, brush your teeth and grab a fresh cup of jav — and now it’s Wednesday. This time, you’re wearing an old-fashioned sleeping cap. You know you don’t have one of those.
You’ve missed a day of work and you’re not entirely sure how to wake yourself up. You try a Diet Coke, but it results in a cat nap and some bunny slippers. Tea throws you down for a comfortable eight hours, wearing a face mask you’ve never seen before. You stare a bottle of caffeine pills, but you worry that they would result in a medically-induced coma (they would). Caffeine is a sedative for you, and that is a definite issue.
It’s Thursday now, and you finally manage to stumble out the door, without any help from now un-stimulating stimulants. You trip down the sidewalk, joints aching with lack of use. You are sleepy on the subway, despite all your rest, and you miss your stop. You rush off at the next station, knocking into passers-by and spilling a stranger’s coffee onto your new white dress. On the escalator you bend down slightly, furiously using a bleach pen on the stain. In your crouched position, the hem of your dress gets caught between the rising steps, pulling you sharply downward. You hit your cheekbone and the metal teeth scrape brutally down your face, fast and slow at once, and you experience a pain that makes viscerally aware that you’re alive just as you wonder if you are dying. Someone stops the escalator. Warm blood soaks your hair and eyes. When the EMTs gingerly lift your face, your tongue and bottom jaw are exposed.
Oh damn, girl, I just realized I had some decaf right here! Do you want me to pour some into your face-hole?