New Years Resolutions suck – and I’m being perfectly cliché and predictable through this post, and I have decided that I am okay with it. (I am also apparently okay with run-on sentences.) So every single year I do the New Years dance. I decide I’m going to drastically change my life in a way that could only be seen as tough and resilient. I will change the very make up of my soul in order to be a better person. Essentially it turns into a sufferer’s Lent season on crack. I decide I am going to WIN the new year by flexing muscles of masochism and determination.

365 days of pure torture will inevitably lead to a Zen otherwise unavailable to mere mortals. You and your work out routine – you suck! You and your pledge to work on your commitment issues – get a life! No… I always know exactly what to do.

One year I decided that I would always complete tasks at least 2 weeks ahead a time. That meant classwork, errands, anything. Procrastination was going to become a shadow, and I would forever be productive and the best.

Another year I decided that I wouldn’t date at all. Dating was for horrible horrible people with weak hearts entirely comprised of fluffy, demure things such as marshmallow peeps. I would remain strong in the sight of infatuation! There would be no bending!

Nope. This year was going to be different. 2012 is supposed to mark the end of humanity, so I should go out with a bang.

Yes, I decided I would give up soda – in all reality combining the lose weight resolution with some masochism sprinkled on top. Coming from a family of Coca-Cola fanatics, I knew it would be struggle. BUT WHO DOESN’T LIKE STRUGGLE?

Everything had been perfectly fine with the pledge until one night last week. I was out with friends at an ungodly hour, and we decided that McDonald’s was the place to be. And this is where I was first met with the temptation of all temptations… the soft drink machine was talking to me. It knew that the only thing I really wanted with those pinky-goo-filled nuggets of salty shame was something even more horrendous.

I knew I was struggling with my program, so I reached out to a new friend for support. My friend spoke of individual’s empowerment and the decision to stick it to The World against all odds and demand the fizzy drink of happiness. I believed her, and I began to believe I had found my salvation. So I gave in — And it was glorious… nothing had tasted so good! I thought after a month I would have decided that soda tasted like an ogre’s snot or like baby’s diarrhea. Nope. It was still good. All the things those horrible people who have lived long enough without the stuff tell you? They are all lies.

A week later, I made a realization that I need to have a very difficult conversation. I decided to confess a secret that had been eating away at me inside for 7 whole days. I had resorted to secrecy, isolation, and shame – unable to deal with the stress of this world nor this semester without turning willingly to self-abuse. I had, in fact, been sneaking soda into my room at night and drinking alone. No really… I’ve been hiding it under my jacket and making a mad dash from the vending machine to my room. Hiding the remnants in the bottom of the recycling bin. Praying no one would discover the ugly truth.

Now I’m only the light stuff. A Sprite or a Sierra Mist every other day or so. I still have control. These may be the gate-way sodas, but don’t worry. I’m not to the dark stuff yet. Not yet… But I knew that I could not keep this to myself anymore, and I called The Man – who then offered his support and suggested that perhaps it is best to own up to my problem to the world.  SO here goes…


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