Now I Know How a Crack Whore Feels...

So if you've been following my thoughts these past few months, you know that there's a hierarchy to my love of diet coke. It ranges from love (regular diet coke flavor) to acceptance (lime diet coke flavor) to hatred (vanilla diet coke flavor).

We're now down the the vanilla flavor. The work fridge is a barren wasteland, with nothing but the bitter, chemical taste of fake vanilla to offer. Of course, I'm drinking it as a write. And I hate myself for it. But I needs my caffeine, baby. I needs it. And even if I have to chug that evil swill, I'm going to do it.

Why do the powers that be order equal amounts of all three? Clearly people have preferences. The simple fact that the regular flavor goes first would indicate that we should order more. The sight of me in my cube gently stroking that last empty can while softly weeping should be warning enough that it's time to place another order.

I know I have a problem. I know I could go get help. Or even just some regular flavor diet coke from the cafeteria downstairs, but the swill is here now, and I can't say no.

It taunts me from the cooler. It looks at me and says "I know you hate me, but when you need it, I'll be here. Waiting. 'Cause you my bitch..."

It's just a matter of time before I end up in an alley, covered in filth, desperately sucking on empty 2 liter bottles.

Okay, maybe I don't like regular diet coke that much, but lord knows I don't like the vanilla flavor.

LM