If I start ballooning up again, folks, it’s because my new meal plan has been including less and less of my beloved Diet Coke. I used to guzzle the shit like spring rain from God’s vagina, addicted to the caffeine content and loving the calorie-free way it made me look like less of a whale. But after years upon indiscriminate years of ingesting the stuff, I just noticed it has a sort of chemical-y taste. There aren’t a whole lot of nutrients in there. In fact, it’s a wicked stew made of materials not found in nature, lethal liquids with five or six syllable names, all colored a delightful shade of dark rectal brown. I had become so hooked on the thing that I didn’t realize it actually tastes like something siphoned out of a septic tank!
A few weeks ago, I finally knew I had to stop this addiction or I would surely become allergic to myself and have to sleep with splints between my fingers. And so I HAVE started my fond farewell to Diet Coke while going through all the requisite cold-turkey sweats and shivers. Instead, I’ve been ordering soda water with a splash of cran—or as certain in-the-know bartenders call it, a Flirty (a/k/a a Virgin Rose Kennedy)—and I’m feeling much less like a one-man nuclear plant. So please treat me to a Flirty and help finance my road back to mental health. Now!