Confessions of a Bohemian

I need more devil in my tea. Goat-head with hooves for feet, and then crushed into small shards like tea leaves--but this does not get me over the first bout of love sickness that sweeps over me when I see her, and then talk to her, and then make love to her, and sleep in her bed the next day. All this happens in the span of twelve hours, and all I have to go on is the steam from this one cup of tea, which has very little nutritional value, but I’ve already searched her refrigerator.

I was sitting in a coffee shop one day before I met her when a man told me the story of the devil and how there was a company in England that packaged him in little bags for tea, but that I could rest assured because it was diluted greatly once they saw it was catching on, and that they could make serious money off of it. The man was drunk, but the conversation was sobering, because for once in my life I had laughed until milk came out of my nose. [The alignment of me, the man, and the milk was one more indication that Fate with a capital F existed, and that It had a rather shallow sense of humor.]

But the girl could understand why this mattered, and why tea was the perfect fuel to carry on a twelve-hour love affair. And when I told her I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, she tried not to laugh too hard, and I knew if a tea company in England hadn’t diluted the devil, my luck would not have run out.