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This Ain’t Gonna Be Pretty

“Everyone’s gotta die sometime.”

This was my mother’s lackadaisical response whenever, after being bombarded at school with pictures of blackened lungs, I would beg her to stop smoking.

As far as I know, she’s still going strong; we haven’t spoken in years.  But I’ve always thought if Someone Up There really has a twisted sense of humor, I would probably die first – in some ridiculous manner, like “Being Struck By A Flying Model Lawnmower At A New York Jets Halftime Show” or, probably more likely in my neck of the woods, “Being Crushed In Your Car By A Rolling Bale Of Hay.”

Recently, I have been struggling with IBS (Irritated B—– Screaming because no one can diagnose what’s wrong with her stomach).  Cap’n Firepants and many of my friends have cautiously asked me if this could be in any way, shape, or form related to my Diet Coke Addiction.

I won’t tell you my less than polite response to this ridiculous suggestion, but I will say that, in desperation, I have mentioned this possibility to all of my doctors – who have pooh-poohed it immediately.

Trying to Get the Diet Coke Monkey off My Back

Of course, these are the same doctors who have no idea what is wrong with me.

Since my doctors have not only been unable to identify the cause of my issues nor to successfully treat the symptoms, I am beginning to have a little less faith in their advice.

I’ve decided to crowd-source my treatment, and the Crowd seems to think I need to give up Diet Coke.  The good news is, this treatment will cost me nothing.

The bad news is that I will most likely murder someone during my withdrawal.

I pretty much drink Diet Coke like most people drink water.  In fact, when I do drink water, my stomach churns and rebels as though I have just ingested arsenic-laced tea.

I’ve given D.C. up a few times in the last twenty years – most notably when I was pregnant with Dimples.  But, to me, it’s always rated as a not-so-horrible-as-snorting-coke Addiction, so I return to it with a vengeance.

When reports started coming out that diet soda drinkers were actually fatter than their counterparts, I dismissed this as another one of those studies that was missing some key data – until my jeans started getting too tight a few weeks ago.

And then there is my own daughter.

When she asked if she could have a sip of my Diet Coke, all of my maternal instincts instantly screamed, “No, don’t let her start down this road of addiction to caffeine and artificial sweeteners!”

However, it’s a little difficult to justify restricting her from the same vile stuff I pour down my own throat on an hourly basis.

So, as a noble sacrifice for the sake of Dimples, I am going to make an attempt to break this vicious cycle.

Of course, I wouldn’t be upset if my jeans started fitting again.

Plus, I want to prove my doctors wrong.

And, quite frankly, although I am fairly certain I will “die sometime,” I really don’t want my obituary to read, “Diet Coke Ate up Her Internal Organs.”

In the meantime, at the risk of getting myself thrown in the slammer for insider trading, I highly recommend you start selling any stock you might have in Diet Coke.  Their profits are about to suffer a severe downtick.

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/kt/503318641/”>The Rocketeer</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a> 
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