I'm drinking too much Coca-Cola.
I know it's the sugar rush, I know I'm looking for any semblance of artificial sensation, but these habits kind of creep up on me. What seems fine on one day--a can of soda mid way through the work day, a tall glass of coke, can I have a lime wedge with that? while at a restaurant--soon becomes a regular pick-me-up and then a required mood stabilizer. I know it's a problem because I internally congratulate myself when I order a ginger ale at the bar. "Ginger ales are for bars," I tell myself, ignoring the nagging at the back of my head, ignoring the flutter in my chest, ignoring my desire of Coca-Cola. Not Pepsi, mind you, not President's Choice Cola, not Jones' Soda or any of those derivatives, Coca-Fucking-Cola.
When I order a ginger ale, I say, "Can I have a ginger ale? No ice. With a lime?" I feel like this makes it more of a "drink" I think.
"The ginger ale is warm," I'm often told. Unrefrigerated cans lining the back of the bar. I do not relent. It's the way I take my G.A., no exceptions. I am always given a straw. I always tip a dollar. I never want the straw, but find it weird to include that in my order--ginger ale, no ice, no straw, with a lime--it seems silly. I also don't want to take the straw out and just leave it on the bar, that seems rude; tiny puddle of ginger ale, wasted straw tossed aside, its existence made pointless by my insistence to drink like a big boy. The server going through that minute extra effort to locate the straws, select one, place it in my glass all for my benefit, well, surely I'm not going to insult their diligence by promptly plucking it out. I really should just let them know I don't need the straw. Instead, I place my finger over the top, pull the straw from the warm, pale soda, place it in my mouth and release, always disappointed by the unsatisfying dribble of liquid I am treated to. I play with the straw for awhile, eventually tying it into a knot and placing it in my pocket.
All the while, I'd rather just have a Coke.
Right now I'm staring at two green 750mL bottles of Perrier. One is half gone. Three empty bottles of Coca-Cola stand as silent sentries, mocking my inability to keep my room clean, chucking at the Perrier.
"I like the Perrier," I tell them insistently, taking a big swig as emphasis.
They say nothing. They know I'm lying.
I know the way I drink Coca-Cola is a problem because of how relaxed I feel the moment I have a can or bottle in my possession. I try to procure some early in the day, the knowledge of its existence is soothing, the knowledge that it's All Mine, moreso. I tend to drink a Coke before I feel like I need to (eventually, I'll feel like I need to, so why wait until then?), my mood becomes elevated, my tension decreases, I sigh deeply. I drink so fast at first that I always get a slight case of hiccups. "Oh man," I say, breathless, sometimes I feel the need to pause, to savour the moment.
I know the way I drink Coca-Cola is a problem because of my knowledge of which stores around the city have the specialty variations like "Cherry Coke" and "Vanilla Coke"; because I won't go to the same stores over and over to buy a can to maintain some anonymity; because I buy sandwiches from 7-11 simply to get the free mini-bottle of Coke that comes with them.
I know the way I drink Coca-Cola is a problem because of my knowledge of which stores around the city have the specialty variations like "Cherry Coke" and "Vanilla Coke"; because I won't go to the same stores over and over to buy a can to maintain some anonymity; because I buy sandwiches from 7-11 simply to get the free mini-bottle of Coke that comes with them.
Look, I say to the empty bottles of Coke taking another swig from the big green bottle, I didn't go through the hell of giving up all my addictions to get stuck seeking a soda every time I'm feeling a bit disjointed. Plus, with the continual sugar highs and lows, my revered, medicinal carbonated compatriot, you're just contributing to the disjointedness in the first place.
Since moving back to Toronto (we'll get to all of this in a later post) I've been feeling waves of depression, isolation and loneliness. [note to all friends: i love you guys. this isn't as a result of you not being there or inviting me to things or not being the best. it's me, not you. working on it.] A huge part of me wishes I hadn't quit smoking. IE. I desperately want to smoke. I wish I could drink. I wish I could get high, and have fun, and not care and not care and not care. Let's pretend none of this ever happened, let's go back to the way things were, see you in the park, see you in the alley way, I hate Ronnie's, but I'd kill for a spot on the patio today.
Something is definitely missing in my life and I haven't accepted that it's not coming back.
Coca-Cola is not it. Coca-Cola does not get to pretend to be it.
Luckily, Perrier doesn't seem to want to be it. It's just a big, dumb green bottle filled with a carbonated liquid that someone forgot to add flavour to. It tingles in the mouth, burns a little on the way down, promising nothing.
I'm cleaning my room tonight. Those Coke bottles have mocked me long enough.