SWARTHOS

We all have our vices, creatures of habit in a chaotic world where sanity is just a hair’s breadth from madness, and mine—my unholy ambrosia—is coffee. Sweet, black, life-affirming coffee, brewed to the strength of a thousand suns and consumed at an alarming rate of twelve cups a day. That’s right, folks, one gargantuan American-sized pot of freshly ground beans, each splatter of steaming mud a sacrament to the gods. I am a caffeine-charged beast, prowling the streets with a cup in hand, convinced that nothing can touch me. Until it did, of course.

There I was, trundling my good dog Urt through the frayed seams of suburbia, when I was suddenly plunged into the chaotic spiral of an ocular disaster. It came on like a burst of fireworks thrown at the Fourth of July—pop, flash, bang! My vision went rogue, operating like a malfunctioning strobe light, and I found myself trapped in a kaleidoscope of panic. I thought I was merely traversing past a picket fence, with each plank betraying me with a flicker of light—an optical illusion or some cosmic joke played by the universe. But no, the culprit was my own damn eyes, rebelling against me like a pack of rabid dogs.

With a quarter mile left to go, I wrestled with the encroaching dread—a primal fear that sent me reeling into the ether of anxiety. Heart racing like a rat on speed, I finally crossed the threshold of home, flung open the door, and ushered Urt inside like a mediocre circus act. Then came the moment of utter Gregor Samsa absurdity: calling an ambulance was futile. The strobe nightmare had morphed my surroundings into a dizzying carousel of confusion. I couldn’t see straight, my body urged me to curl up and disappear, but I did what any rational, fully caffeinated American would do—I climbed into my monstrous, 4,000-pound rolling sanctuary and bore down on the gas pedal with the conviction of a true adrenaline junkie.

The thought of a stroke flashed through my caffeine-soaked brain like the neon lights of Las Vegas—my life flashing before my eyes, coffee stains and all. When I burst into the emergency room, a barrage of medical staff swooped upon me as though I were a prize catch at the county fair. They drew blood, stuck a myriad of wires to me, and turned my head into a freakish puppet show of finger-following and penlight torture. Doctor after nurse filed in and out, and for that six-hour stretch, I teetered on the brink of discovery—or existential crisis. Where did this madness stem from? Did my glorious nectar of the gods finally carry the poisoned touch?

Finally, the curtain lifted, and the chaos melted away. They pronounced me fit to breathe (if only just), and, with a sense of absurd triumph, I stumbled from the hospital, slid into my car, and drove my delirious self home. With the world spinning gently around me, I made a simple pledge to the universe: No more than ten cups a day. A small concession, perhaps, but as I sip my robust brew now, I’m haunted by the shadows of that strobe-light episode lurking in the corner of my mind like a caffeinated ghost. And should I venture back into the abyss with my beloved coffee? Only time—and perhaps a few fewer cups—will tell.