I feel like poisoning myself,

she says, as she sips the vile concoction she's in her goblet at her desk. Milk, little sugar, little hazelnut syrup, Swiss Miss powder, and hazelnut coffee. There's too much coffee, it's too dark, but I don't want to add more milk and I don't want to mess with it anymore and I don't want to toss it because I've spent time and money, dammit, and I will drink the bitter brew down. (Taurus. What other characteristic is quintissentially Taurus?)

I'm impressed with myself: I enacted (enabled? issued? created?) a direct line of communication where I would usually have gone on hearsay. This is important; in research it's called... a primary source, that's it! Better to get info from a primary source than anywhere else, yes? That's what I thought. Let's hope that things work out.
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~/ another repetition of the title of the song. ~/
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Also, TMBG on the brain:
~/ Lie still, little bottle, shake my shaky hand.
Black coffee's not enough for me, I need a better friend.
One pill at the bottom, singin' my favorite song.
I know I must investigate; I hope that I can sing along.

Now there's no time for metaphor, cried the little pill to me.
He said that life is a placebo masquerading as a simile.
Well, I knew that pill was lying: too precarious, too nice.
But as he walked I had to sing this twice. ~/