Coke Whore

I have...a problem, you could say. A compulsion. A need, a desire, a want. An addiction, fine, if you want to use that loaded word. If you want to get all judgmental on me.

This addiction of mine has long been a problem in my life. It's more mental than physical, though sure, my body craves this thing, wants it desperately. But I can stop. And I have stopped. For months at a time. So obviously, I don't really have a problem. I'm able to cut myself off, deny myself, I must not really be an addict. Not  if I'm able to go without.

But...I just don't want to go without my love, my life. It makes me feel warm and safe and loved. It gives me comfort when I can't find it anywhere else. It keeps me company. It whispers my  name. Calls to me.

Diet Coke, my old friend. I never want to leave you.

But you're rotting my teeth. And my brain. I'm gonna get Alzheimers. I'm going to die of aspartame poisoning.

I'm gonna go broke when I stop working at a place where I get it for free and start buying my own. I'm going to run out of room in the fridge when I start filling it with nothing but Diet Coke because what if the zombies come!?

I want to give it up, but I don't.

I must stop.

BUT I DON'T WANT TO.

I don't have to yet, right? I can wait? Wait until it's really a problem? Wait until I hit bottom, until I'm living in a box cradling my empty cans close to my bosom, sobbing uncontrollably?

I fucking love Diet Coke.