Hand Me A Diet Coke and Nobody Gets Hurt
How Do You Know When You're Addicted to Diet Coke?
When you are out.
You've double, triple checked the fridge.
Yup, I'm out.
Open fridge door again to see if:
A. An empty fridge was just a bad dream.
B. Diet Coke has magically appeared since the last peek.
C. God had mercy and delivered my manna
No Diet Coke.
Next option. Thinking! Thinking!
The store, three miles down the road is too far. Sonic? I'd have to wait. Those car hops have no sense of urgency.
So I get in the car and drive to the nearest golf course. Park across the street. Sprint across said street, scaring squirrels and other woodland creatures playing in the road. (Think to yourself: Huh. Why is it I'm only capable of running fast when I need food, throat burning drink, or my body is on fire?)
Toss change into vending machine. Change that I spent five minutes collecting from various sources: the couch, the car, the neighbor kid.
Change spits right back out.
No! I try again.
Change goes in.
And falls out.
Run back across the street to car. Yelling. Scare old lady golfer in high waisted shorts. But don't care because frankly her outfit and fashion violations scare me too.
Yell some more.
Rummage through purse for a dollar bill.
Find a ten.
Sob for twenty seconds.
Press my face against car window, pleading with my eyes at every passing car to have mercy on me.
Merciless heathens pay me no mind and mock me with their refusal to make eye contact.
Take one last look through purse.
And the heavens open up.
The angels sing.
My heart begins to beat again.
Because there, in the last place it should've been, next to the measuring tape and half of a two week old Snickers, is a crisp, beautiful dollar bill.
And that, my friends, is what I call a great Saturday.