It's Likely That I Will Implode Before You Read This

I have grave concerns that I have an addiction to caffeine.

I've long erred on the side of caution when referring to addictions, because real addictions are powerful things that sometimes ruin lives, and it seems sort of rude to be like "I'm addicted to candy!" when really I enjoy the occasional Chokotoff (having a European boyfriend has its downsides, you see).

But I'm serious now.

There's good chance that if you spend any amount of time with me here in Dunedin that you know I not only enjoy the occasional Chokotoff but also the occasional can, bottle, or giant goblet of V. I once drank a litre (that's a quarter of a gallon) in the space of an hour or two, and I'm not exaggerating here, I did not sleep for two days afterwards. After that, I swore off it until the afternoon following, when I spent three hours on Sephora.com reading reviews of the Bliss "Pore-fector" Gadget Kit. Oh, how I wish I was lying about that one.

Since then, V has become the bane of my day-to-day life. The part of me that loves my stomach lining shrieks "no! Don't do it!", but the part of me that likes staying up past midnight jabbing Jelle (who is invariably trying to sleep) in the ribs with my index finger always caves. So it's with regret that I confess to a two-bottles-a-day habit.

So bedtime should be fun tonight. It's 6:40pm and I'm looking at an empty bottle that I just finished. I feel invincible, like I could type forever. Whether that results in one of the greatest literary masterpieces of the last century, some angry blog posts, or an essay outline (I'm hoping for that one, since it's due on Monday, and tomorrow I'm going to see Inception and expect to spend the weekend crowing about it and doing makeup for the Carrington College ball) - we shall see.

Over and out.
(For the next five minutes, anyway)