a two-package-of-oatmeal kind of monday

After sex, I usually want something. I cannot always distinguish the properties of what this thing looks like or feels like. Usually, I want it to feel like a swift kick in the rear. That's black bitter coffee. Or a cigarette if I smoked. Or a crisp sunburn. Today, that was two packages of cinnamon-bun-flavored instant oatmeal. A wrecking ball of oats and butter flavor socking me in the gut, forcing me to sit down and work on compositions. 

I think that is the function of desiring such a harsh transition: I need to switch modes and leave sex-lounge-around-land. Like ripping off a band-aid, transitioning as quickly as possible is considered best practice.