If I didn’t have to rate Coca-Cola with stars, as the gents here at mouthshut would have me do, I would rate it ''AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!!!'' or with a tiny picture of a man removing his own liver with a butter knife. Only then could I even begin to properly represent my love-hate relationship with the product in question, or, as I call him, the carbonated devil.
At age eighteen all I knew was that I didn’t know nothing. I didn't know my place in the world or what it meant to live and die or how to tie my shoes. The fact that I had moved to San Francisco, away from my family and friends and into the soul sucking heart of the beast we call adulthood, only compounded my problem.
I attempted to chew off my fingers. I tried to meet people by running marathons up and down the hall of the dormitory. I invented imaginary friends and had tea parties in the wee hours of the morning, but none of it helped the fact that I was just plumb out of sorts and homesick for some Southern California loving.
I turned to caffeine.
Like so many other youths caught in the torrent winds of a flatulent identity, I looked to drugs as an answer for my loneliness. In some bizarre attempt to plug the gap in my aching arteries, I pumped myself full of caffeine. Caffeine could provide me with the self-esteem that human contact could not.
Coffee tasted like sheep dip (oh, but I was so much younger then...) and Red Bull, to my knowledge, hadn’t yet been invented (I'm not even sure Red Bull contains caffeine, anyway. I suspect that Red Bull is merely a distillation of the chemicals most commonly found on a toad’s back. Though, in all honesty, I have yet to come up with any proof, but the voices in my dreams come up with some pretty convincing arguments).
Finally, my attention locked onto the vibrant red can that seductively whispered ''Come to me, unprofound. I shall ease your anxiety, absorb your pain, give you deep back massages and read you bedtime stories. Come away with me, unprofound, to a place where your thirst for the knowledge of the soul shall be quenched. I love you. Isn't it nice to be loved? And I ask nothing of you. Nothing in return for my unconditional love but that you drink me. Drink my saccharine goodness and have your faith restored. Drink and smile and drink and drink and drink.''
And so it came to a point where I sat alone in my dorm room, locked in a cold, dead stare with the temptress Coca-Cola. As she coolly and calmly lured me to taste of her supple syrup, I pleaded with myself not to succumb. Eventually, I reasoned, I would make friends in the dormitory. I would learn to love my new life in San Francisco. I would wean myself from the need for imaginary companionship. My fingers would grow back. Though Coca-Cola assured me of her sincerity and concern for my well-being, she really only wanted access to my intestines, where she would flow freely, feasting on the glorious nutrients of my stomach lining, leaving me with nothing but pain in exchange for my blind trust. “Resist,” I told myself, “Things will turn around. Don’t drink. You will only suffer as a result. Chew off your fingers, burn your eyes on endless games of Minesweeper, but remain strong. Do what you have to do, but don’t drink.”
I drank.
How could I not?
Thus began my college career, and, like the woman said, I drank and drank and drank, until, soon, I was consuming, on average, three liters of the carbonated devil a day. I found myself immune to the bright-eyeing, bushy-tailing effects of the caffeine, much like those who compulsively shoot Day-Quill every morning become immune to the ick.
Soon into my Coca-Cola binges, I began to suffer from ''Brown Tongue,'' which brought about the death of my taste buds. Then, as if plaque wasn't bad enough, my teeth and gums became enameled with thin layers of Coke (the upside of this development was the ability to run my tongue across my chompers and feel a minor surge of energy). I didn't brush my teeth because I knew I'd only drink again after rinsing. Advised to drink through a straw, the Brown Tongue evolved into ''Sugar Throat,'' a condition that, if afflicted, can only be pronounced ''Sugar Throechhhh'' as you scrape a ball of Coke-phlegm off your uvula. And, as the dark mistress Coca-Cola did this kind of damage to the surface of my mouth, I could only imagine it laying waste to my insides, where it would settle and boil.
Eventually, Coca-Cola became a “gateway” drug. I did try Red Bull and each of its designer-drug imitators. Even now, I struggle to remain a productive member of society while harboring a secret two-pots-a-day coffee addiction. I tour American high schools under a false name, urging the young ones to never give in to the syrupy seductress. Often, after I’ve finished my prepared speech and opened up the floor to questions, a boy--sometimes as young as 14 or 15 years old--will raise his hand and plead, “I understand what you’re saying and I believe you, but... Coca-Cola tastes so good and so sweet. And she says she loves me. How can such a beautiful thing be as dangerous as you say?”
I answer that boy with the words I now impart to you, gentle reader. Coca-Cola is a drug of the worst kind, because no one teaches what kind of havoc it wreaks on the user. There are no C.A.R.E. programs. You will simply go on believing that you're “merely” thirsty, that you can quit and any time, all the while slowly Coking away your liver, stomach and intestines.
Even when you become aware of its downsides, Coca-Cola will seduce you into rationalizing your habit. “I can’t work without her,” you will say, “I need her to make it through my 18 hour days.” Slowly and inevitably, she will begin to take away more than she provides. You will find her love a fleeting, hollow one. You will regret not remaining content with imaginary tea parties and chewing off your own fingers. You will fall, and when you fall, you will curse the name of the cruel woman who brought about your crippled state, but only until you taste of her again.
...I only wish I could take my own advice. Even now, my can whispers, ''Give me five stars. I taste sooooooooo good. You know you want to. I'll always be here for you. I promise. I'll always be here. Just give me those five stars.'' And I know I will.
What else can I do?
I'm weak.
