On The Wagon

The physical effects of kicking Mountain Dew were bad enough: lethargy, headaches, lack of focus. I've compensated for it somewhat by returning to my tea-drinking days and getting at least a modicum of caffeine a day, though nowhere near as much as I'm used to. Headaches are still an almost-daily reminder that I'm doing something I didn't really want to do, but knew I had to if I ever wanted to see my toes again.

What's surprising are the psychological effects. And I suppose these are true of any addiction, but it's shocking to me just how much of an addiction "Doing the Dew" was. In short, this past week when I've contemplated that I can't just pop into the gas station and get a Dew, my immediate reaction has been "Well, life's just not worth living." Not to the extent that I'm ready to drive my truck into a tree, but certainly lending itself to a certain morosity at the prospect that I'll never find something quite as tasty and stimulating as The Dew.

Not a little funny is that this specific sort of weltschmertz has flowed over into other things, rendering me hard-pressed to crank out any words creatively and thus contemplate the certain doom that is my nascent writing "career." Good thing I can think of this as "funny," though, hey?

Eventually, someday, I may be able to enjoy the neon green sweetness that is my beloved Dew, but, at a guess, I'm going to say that'll be at least fifty pounds from now, if not more. And it would only be as a treat, to remind me what a treat is. Never again will I buy it at the grocery store every weekend for general consumption.

This saddens me, I suppose, but I bet I'll get over it.