Thursday, June 21, 2007
no interventions please, it's entirely under control...no really.
I’m such an emotional DC drinker. Lately I’ve been feeling a little stressed at work and other places, so I’ve dropped some weight and upped the Diet Coke intake. When my boss said something snide to me in front of a co-worker the other day, I bolted for the fridge. I drink because I’m unhappy. I’m unhappy because I…actually, no. I’m not unhappy. I’m very happy! Diet Coke makes me happy! WHO AM I HURTING? IT’S JUST A SOFT DRINK! Oh, my tortured shame.
Nearly all of my well-beloved ancestors hail from either Germany, Ireland, or Scotland. Now just what kind of a chance do I have here, really? Could I at least beg for some credit since it isn’t Gewurztraminer, Guinness, or Johnny Walker? It’s in the line. It’s in the bloodstream. Generations of junkies hooked on the liquid stimulant coursing through my unassuming veins. The demons I face, people! Dirty demons, dirty drinking demons, with little dirty faces. I beat them down with Diet Coke! Come on!
Lots of peeps advise that you need to replace the bad thing with something else that’s better in order to kick the habit. Kay. Great. Go find me something better than Diet Coke. No, do it. Go. Cuz I’ve looked. And I wish you the very best of luck with that. Diet Coke anyone?
(she says as she indulgently nurses the 44oz Diet Coke with lime from Sonic that she purchases almost every morning on her way to work).
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