Drink to This

I don’t think it’s any secret in these here parts that I like to drink. I like to drink a lot.  And I don’t mean alcohol (although I like to drink that too),  I just mean drinks in general.  Liquids.  Because I dehydrate easily. Even when I was a child I was more thirsty than hungry ever.  When my parents would take us to a local cafe for ice cream, I’d ask for a Coke instead.  In a glass bottle. With icy condensation running down the bottle and a stripy paper straw. You can keep your ice cream and your * milk shakes. I love drinks.  They are so ultimately satisfying.

*Milk shakes are not drinks.  They are melted ice cream.  Ok?  OK.

These days I’m trying to be good where my drink intake is concerned.  My biggest vice is Diet Pepsi. Sure it has no calories and tastes ok but it does have artificial sweeteners that apparently make you insane and deformed and give you a hunch back and a forked tongue and make your belly button close up.  Like a dirty-minded, motor-cycle riding, tobacco spitting boyfriend, I know it’s no good for me, yet it’s so damn tantalizing.  That icy coldness.  The intense aggression of the fizz almost burning in your throat.  I love it.  I am addicted to it.  I would happily drink it until I explode in a giant blast of C02 and happiness and guts. I need my Diet Pepsi, damn it.  For the sake of all humanity and any future peace on Earth.
 
But I have been limiting myself to one small bottle a day.  One small bottle.  It almost hurts me to say it.   The rest of the day I drink water  as I am clearly insane.  Because water doesn’t have a taste or any thrills at all.  And because I am quite inconsolable about drinking it when I could be feeling that chilled, caffeinated bottle of Aspartame drip down my throat like sweet, sweet honey.  Only, you know….fizzier and Pepsier.

I have my one Diet Pepsi with either lunch or dinner.  Whichever I choose, I will fixate on it for hours before.  “Only three more hours till my Diet Pepsi” I mutter under my breath while trying not to twitch in anticipation.

It’s really as sad as it sounds. 

The other day there was no Diet Pepsi in the house but a foreign bottle of Coke Zero on a shelf of its own in the fridge, shunned by vegetables and cheese alike, due to its alien presence.  Even the condiments didn’t want to be around it and those little sluts will hang out with anyone.  So reluctantly I drank it. And it was satisfactory I suppose.  For an inferior beverage.  It was too….Cokey.  I felt like a spy infiltrating foreign waters. But it was ok.  I mean it wasn’t Diet Coke at least. That trashtastic whore. I draw the line at Diet Coke. Diet Coke steals all your money and tries to sell sex tapes of you to the National Enquirer.

And it tastes like ass.

So yes, I’m determined that my water intake needs to be constant and gigantic.  I need to flood my innards with cold, refreshing aqua. Flush out my toxic system and let my skin bathe in the glow of health it contains.  I need to drink so much water I am 99% water and make water-bed noises when I move or else I’ll turn into a reprobate or a serial killer, according to all the health articles I read.

On the alcohol side of the fence, I also have a substantial urge for some icy cold beer and possibly some Malibu.  I love me some Malibu. I know, I know, it’s a lame lady drink but it tastes so good. So good. All coco-nutty and fruity and rummy and delectable.  I want it in a tall glass with ice, a wedge of lime and chilled 7UP.  No substitutions.  No Coke.  I know Malibu and Coke is the norm, but since when am I the norm?  Huh?  Since never that’s when. I dilute all my liquors with 7UP or Sprite.  It’s the only way to be a classy lady like me. Coke mixers are for Plebians and perverts.

Tomorrow, I may have to stop at the liquor store and procure a bottle of Malibu and just put myself out of my misery. 

Yes I did.  I wrote an entire entry about drinks.  Worship my deviance.