Confessions of a Coke Addict

600 ounces of coke on the wall, 600 ounces of coke ...

I recently went to a forensic tournament at which I was not competing and decided to try pursuing nutrition the way I had always wanted - the way my various competitive and snotty partners had prevented me from treating myself in the past. This philosophy of nutrition can be summed up in a single word: Coke. What follows is the day-by-day log of the resulting experiment.

DAY ONE: LIFE IS GOOD

Fruit, 1 bowl
Mini Croissant, 2
Sugar-free Kiwi-Strawberry juice, 2 glasses
Coca-Cola Classic, 12 cans

Coke wakes me up and keeps me there. I feel energy all over. My steps are springy. I have a smile on my face and a twinkle in my eye. My hair flounces around jauntily. I am alert and competent. My tongue shows slight signs of swelling. I have no appetite. I must break often to use the restroom. I express myself well and grasp complex challenges easily. I must have another coke at least every one and a half hours or my brain will settle into a dull buzz. I lie awake in bed until three, pondering deep philisophical and moral questions.


DAY TWO: RED BULL FOR BREAKFAST

Fruit, 2 forkfuls
Mini Croissant, 1
Banana, 1
Sugar-free Kiwi-Strawberry juice, 1 glass
Red Bull, 1 Can
Coca-Cola Classic, 15 cans

A friend gave me a can of Red Bull late the first day. I drink it early on the second and wash it down with two cokes. I feel a warm, dry presence around myself, as if I have been rolled in salt. My tongue is badly swollen. I can no longer use my peripheral vision. It is difficult to begin moving after remaining still for several minutes. It is also difficult to remain still for several minutes. I go for three hours without coke; a racking headache ensues followed by nausea and gas. I knock back 2 more cans and the sensations pass. My bladder has gone on strike. Heartburn comes to stay. Various concerned mothers seek to physically tear the coke out of my hands. They fail miserably. Several out-of-state visitors are damaged.


DAY THREE: THE PAIN, THE PAIN!

Coca-Cola Classic, 21 cans

Waking up is a violent and painful act. Aligning my steps in a straight line proves challenging. My eyes are red, my lips are brown, and my tongue is white. Cramps are common. Someone has driven an iron rod between my temples. I can feel the blood pumping through my stomach. I get into a fight with a drunk bearded guy and lose. My love life makes significant advances, none of them in the right direction. I stutter badly. My active vocabulary is reduced to several hundred words, most of them several syllables long and difficult to pronounce. I am incurably happy. I can think in a clear and lucid fashion and solve some of the most difficult problems about the nature of mankind and the universe. Unfortunately, my short-term memory is reduced to forty seconds. I forget my brilliant thoughts before I can write them down. My intestines have been tied into a tight knot. My ears are ringing. A law enforcement official doesn't believe I'm holding the coke for a friend. I am forced to outrun him. I drink toasts to anything and everything. I must have a sip once every ten minutes at the least or the numbness will begin to fade. My hand is completely still when at rest, but jerks about wildly when I try to write something. I catch myself singing songs I have never heard before. I bump into things often. A two-year old gets a sugar high by walking past me in the street.


DAY FOUR: COLD TURKEY

Sugar-free Kiwi-Strawberry juice, 2 glasses
Grande Mocha-Lite Frapaccino, 1
Sugar-free gum, 1 stick (not swallowed)

My ride leaves the hotel at ten. My eyes have been open for more than twenty-four hours straight. My tongue has the consistency of sandpaper and sticks to the roof of my mouth like velcro. I have a debilitating headache. My basic motor skills are gone and my balance is shot. I get a well-deserved slap in the face from a hotel maid. My feet are heavy. I trip often. Sunlight blinds me. People have to shout to be heard over the ringing in my ears. My muscles clench and unclench regardless of what my brain tells it. My brain is of limited use right now, anyway. My bladder uncramps very abruptly just north of Los Angeles and we do an abrupt emergency pull over onto the shoulder. I hold one coke left from the tournament in my left hand. It has no charm over me. Just at sundown, my lids close and I cannot open them again. I remain wide awake. I embaress myself and those around me at a fancy restaurant while stabbing things with silverware completely blind. I stab my right thumb as well and can feel nothing even after others tell me. Upon arriving home, I am guided to bed and lie there, singing lustily. My room mate disables me and I sleep for thirteen hours straight.


CONCLUSIONS

In some strange way, I am proud of my discipline and physiological capacity. I can knock back Coke at a rate which would shame anyone, even Jessica, who once beat me in a Coke drinking contest (I was humiliated). Nonetheless, I will switch to decaf, paint my walls pink, and join a yoga class.


FINAL NOTE

Adrienne, if you're reading this, I'm really sorry about what I said. It was immature and senseless. I was a jerk. I was drunk. I didn't know what I was saying. You're a beautiful person and you deserve better than that shotgun-toting redneck. I'm really really sorry, and I beg your forgiveness, and I ask you to give me just one more chance.