The spider in my brain wants coffee. Wary of pandering to its addiction I oblige with decaf and try not to draw too much attention as I ask for a straw with my drink. The barista gives me a silent questioning look but grants me a single straw anyway as she has done three times a day, six days a week and nine years in a row. From there I find the most sheltered corner to huddle away in before I try to feed the straw into the port behind my ear as surreptitiously as possible.
Judging by the lack of commenting from the nearby people I have succeeded in feeding the spider in my brain, satiating it once more and saving myself from its ire. It can be such a hateful little creature I can scarcely stand to be conscious unless it's either satisfied or distracted otherwise it deliberately jerks its legs about "trying to get comfy" and sends me off into a whirlwind of seizures and absolute sensory haywire.
The spider in my brain has been quiet for too long. It usually comments on how the coffee tasted, tries to wheedle its way into having another cup or even an espresso. I can't feel its abdomen moving while it digests the coffee, giving me an unwanted boost in energy for the next three hours or so. No, this time the spider in my brain isn't saying or doing anything at all and I know something must be wrong.
My first instinct is to blame the barista, maybe she made the coffee too strong for the spider to handle or maybe she poisoned it. Maybe she's known about the spider all these years and has been waiting for the right time to come when she can get it right where it's most open - its craving for coffee.
While wait patiently in line to speak with the treacherous barista the person behind me taps my shoulder saying in a quiet, terrified voice, "there's a spider behind your ear." and I want to reply that the spider is actually in my ear, or rather sitting between my brain and skull but my hand is automatically cupping the port-side of my head.
I feel damp fur, long spindly legs and sticky webbing leading into the port. My hand retreats, covered in blood.
Judging by the lack of commenting from the nearby people I have succeeded in feeding the spider in my brain, satiating it once more and saving myself from its ire. It can be such a hateful little creature I can scarcely stand to be conscious unless it's either satisfied or distracted otherwise it deliberately jerks its legs about "trying to get comfy" and sends me off into a whirlwind of seizures and absolute sensory haywire.
The spider in my brain has been quiet for too long. It usually comments on how the coffee tasted, tries to wheedle its way into having another cup or even an espresso. I can't feel its abdomen moving while it digests the coffee, giving me an unwanted boost in energy for the next three hours or so. No, this time the spider in my brain isn't saying or doing anything at all and I know something must be wrong.
My first instinct is to blame the barista, maybe she made the coffee too strong for the spider to handle or maybe she poisoned it. Maybe she's known about the spider all these years and has been waiting for the right time to come when she can get it right where it's most open - its craving for coffee.
While wait patiently in line to speak with the treacherous barista the person behind me taps my shoulder saying in a quiet, terrified voice, "there's a spider behind your ear." and I want to reply that the spider is actually in my ear, or rather sitting between my brain and skull but my hand is automatically cupping the port-side of my head.
I feel damp fur, long spindly legs and sticky webbing leading into the port. My hand retreats, covered in blood.
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