Popped: short

I can stop when I want to.

Isn't that the lie all addicts tell themselves at some point? Maybe it's after that first sip, where they feel as though they are floating through air and are about to reach nirvana. Or, when they've realized, later on, what a mistake they've made and they're asking themselves how they can get out.

Are you there, God? It's me, the addict.

I've told myself I can quit, that I will quit, and that I should quit. If not for my health, for my figure. If not for my figure, my pocketbook. If not for my pocketbook, for the pure sake of being that counterculture person that everyone acts like they despise, but wishes they could be.

I am not this person.

As I sit here in my car, it's all I think about. I start my day off with the nectar of the gods, and slowly enjoy it through the rest of the day. At night, it only is partaken of if I have a certain type of dinner. Yes, I drink with fast food, which is probably the worst decision of all. As if I'm not already destroying myself.

My tongue tingles with the apprehension of something cool and refreshing. It hopes that I will listen to that part of my brain that says I am not strong enough to do what is best for myself, but what is most delicious.

The weight sitting on my frame, about average, I would suspect, feels like an unwelcome guest. I don't know if its visceral or the other term used in the media to make me feel disgusting. I don't know if my blood pressure is high, if I'm at risk of diabetes, or if I repel the opposite sex.

I am more than this.

But now as I sit here, thinking about if it's worth the money or not, I decide that it is. It's worth every drop of pleasure and regret. I could become healthy and break free from this demon, or I could embrace it. Life is short.

I turn off my car. I get out, and immediately feel a sense of excitement. Perhaps because I am going to do something taboo in front of people? That's most likely the cause of the restless butterflies in my gut. I pull open the door, the cool air brushing the little strands of hair away from my face, only to pull them back again like the tide. I look around. There are families here. Most likely they are judging me, I assume, as almost all people are judged as soon as you see them. Quantifiers, if you will, but they truly are judgments.

My purse feels heavy.

My stomach feels heavy.

My feet feel heavy.

I ignore the eyes fixated on me, my chubby exterior, and am doubting myself up until the very minute I hear--

“Welcome to McDonald's, what can I get for you?”

I act like nothing is wrong. It's a casual restaurant, and people come here all the time.

Nothing new.

“Hi, I'd, uh, like a large Dr. Pepper, please.”

Large. Why did I order a large?

“Is that all for you, ma'am?” the disinterested teenager responded.

“Um, could you make it half ice please?”

I see her eyes twitching, as though they are about to roll back into her head. “You mean, like, light ice?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Will that complete your order?”

I feel as though that is a rhetorical question. My order is never complete, as there will always be Dr. Pepper to drink and fries to eat.

“Yeah.”

“Your total is one-oh-eight.”

I pull out the exact change from my pocket. She didn't need to tell me how much it was. Of course I knew that.

I plop the change into her hand, adjust my glasses, fidget with my purse. There's no way this can bounce or be fake, so please, put it in the register already.

She counts out the change.

There is beeping, of course, and chaos behind the counter. I decide that it is best for me to step away from it. Maybe they'd forget about me. After all, I ordered just a drink.

“Here ya go.”

Her plastic covered finger nails grace the Styrofoam, and I am jealous. That is my job.

I grab it, and notice the men behind me in line for the first time. They glance at me briefly, but I do not think it is to judge. I think it is just a reaction. I think.

As I walk by the condiment table, I grab a straw. Tapping it on the counter, I am used to this routine. It is as if it is second nature, and before I know it, the straw is perfectly in the cup with my mouth securely vacuumed to it.

I am an addict.

But I can stop when I want to.