I never forgot about soda. On the outside, I was all nuts hanging low on the Pepsi machine, but my insides were a blunt jones for yellow number 15 and red number 5. I was living a lie, a horrible lie with swoll abs and more crazy women than a docudrama on the Lifetime channel.
I hit rock-bottom February, 2004, doing lines of Tang off of a juicer’s ass in the Smoothie King bathroom. I had lost my shit on that motherfucking juice and when I looked down at that grapefruit stained linoleum floor, the taste of Diet Schweppes spawned in the back of my throat, and I could feel my balls crawl back up into my stomach. Shit wasn’t Sega, shit was strictly Turbo Grafix 16. Lame.
And then, then something magical happened as I insert another dramatic pause, before even trying to progress this wandering epic.