An Addiction Story: McDonald's Fountain Coke

 The Forbidden Fizz I Can't Quite Shake 

I wish I knew how to quit you,
McDonald's.

McDonald's fountain Coke has its spicy spell on me.  Like Santana's Black Magic Woman, I just can't leave it alone.

I've tried at least three times to stop suckling at its long, plastic, cylindrical teat.  And as hard as it is to quit stuff, it's not as if it's totally unheard of for me to stop doing stupid crap habitually--one time I actually quit Facecrack for five and-a-half years before letting myself get sucked back into its sweet, throaty embrace.

If lovin' you is wrong, I don't ever wanna be right. 

But I'm still lovin' it.

It's not just the soda, or the caramel coloring of it (which, incidentally, is probably slowly killing everyone it touches with its cancer-causing properties, but have you ever tried Crystal Pepsi?  Ewww-uh).

It's the whole sensory triumph.  The cool splash of your first sip.  The perfect level of carbonation.  The grand, compulsive crunch of the ice afterward.  And the subsequent insulin bomb, a pancreatic assault; it all just hurts so good!

This is not a sponsored post, but if you're reading this, #McDonalds #CocaColaBottlingCompany #McLovin et al., please feel free to reward me with a lifetime supply of your ambrosial brown bubbly. 

"I'll tell you when I've had enough, Kids!"