...when I had to drink Diet Coke.

I made it a point to get a blog entry up today so that I could have at least ONE entry in the month of September.

I know, I know, I said I was gonna do better, but listen.  I've been living a half-life.  I have had to drink...prepare yourself, this is tragic...Diet Coke.

I'm sorry if you like Diet Coke, but it is not my brown fizzy drink of choice.  Actually, if I had my choice, I wouldn't drink any of the brown fizzy drinks - they never tasted very good to me.  But I dislike the taste of coffee more, so when I hit my sophomore year of college and absolutely could not function any longer without caffeine, I sat down and had a think about it (as the Irish would say).  I had to choose a brown fizzy drink.

I considered many variables.  I decided that if I was going to force myself to drink something, it might as well be a diet beverage.

Next, I considered taste.

I decided my limit was "mildly icky."  Root beer and Diet Pepsi were out.  Next, I considered fizziness.  After several trials, I had discovered that the fizzier a drink was, the less I could really taste it.  So that was a key variable in my decision.

And so, despite the fact that Diet Dr. Pepper tastes way better than Diet Coke, I went with Diet Coke due to the longevity of its bubbles.

But then I noticed something else happening.

So, I went back to Diet Dr. Pepper.  But this time, my tolerance increased over time.  With each passing year, I could drink more and more of the bottle.

After I graduated college, I transitioned to cans, because my life no longer revolved around vending machines.   And my tolerance continued to rise!

Predictably, I developed a Diet Dr. Pepper dependency.  It was ok as long as there was Diet Dr. Pepper.  I could drink my daily 2/3 of a can and I wasn't hurting anybody and everything was ok.

But then the unthinkable happened.

So I did it.  I drank Diet Coke.  And I didn't die.  

But I wasn't happy.  I would wander to the cabinet by the fridge where we keep the drinks, just in case somebody had decided to go to the grocery store.  But that never happened, because of the four Diet Dr. Pepper drinkers in the office, one didn't drink it enough to be seriously inconvenienced by the lack of it, one was in college (i.e. broke), one bought Diet Dr. Pepper for her house because she had a husband and stuff, and one hated going to the grocery store with a passion so fiery, it would consume every grocery store in a one billion mile radius if it were actually a tangible thing.  (That last one would be me, in case you haven't caught any of the 16, 542 references I've made to hating going to the grocery store.)

However, we were always well stocked with Diet Coke, because the one person who drinks it by choice doesn't mind going to the grocery store.

I don't know how this fits into the post, but I drew it so I want you to see it.  I'm currently obsessed with graphs, so here's a graph depicting the breakdown of drinkers of each beverage in our office.

So anyway, I drank Diet Coke.  And over the weeks, I slid slowly downhill.

But I thought I could handle it.  I thought I was ok.  Ok enough to not go to the grocery store, anyway.  I was wrong.

I could avoid it no longer.  I pulled myself together.  I went to the grocery store.

I grabbed as much as I could carry.

So, friends, I can happily report that I am once again a fully functioning member of society.  At least for another nine days.

Note: In the first "going crazy" drawing, I used "who's" instead of "whose."  I'm so embarrassed.  But I don't have a scanner at home, so I will have to bear the shame.

Another Note: I mislabeled the pie chart.  I know that's not really an accurate title.  But I can't think of an accurate title, so the title I wrote is the one you get.

An Addendum to the Previous Note:  The reason I really wanted you to see the pie chart is because it took me this many attempts to get it right:

...when I got in the elevator.

Today I'm going to try to offer poignant commentary on our society.  In other words, I froze up when trying to think of something funny after my last entry, so I decided that instead of trying to be funny, I'd just be right.

I've been thinking about elevators.  Those of us who work in buildings with multiple floors begin and end our work day with the elevator.  It's kind of like the Russian Roulette of Social Interaction.  Until those doors open, you never know whether you're going to get the good, the bad, or the ugly.

The Bad

If you're just a little too early or a little too late...

Then there's that guy (or gal) who absolutely refuses to acknowledge there's another living, breathing human being in the elevator.

It's almost a relief to get to your office and find out you are not, in fact, completely invisible.  (As opposed to half-invisible or seven-eighths invisible.)

Or how about this one...

It is amazing to me how many people don't realize that when the elevator doors close, they will most likely lose signal.

Now this might reflect more on me than on my elevatormates, but nevertheless...

Even worse...

Or if you're short...

  But then again, sometimes I wish people weren't talking to me.

But nothing beats the ultimate conundrum - the problem that can't possibly be solved between the first floor and the fourth.  The problem that, in fact, all the time in the world may not be enough to solve.

But it's not all bad.  Sometimes the elevator can be a delightful start to the day...

The Good

And it always delights me to no end when I find out chivalry is not dead.

But sometimes, it's hard to categorize an interaction as wholly bad or wholly good, because there's a little bit of both in the mix.  Which leads me to...

The (Devastatingly Not) Ugly

That fateful day when I missed my chance to entice Elevator Guy into falling madly in love with me, sweeping me off my feet, and living happily ever after, I vowed that were I ever to run into him again, I would be much more charming than the first time.  Never again would I impugn his hints at serendipity.  Never again would I brush off his potential pick-up line.  Never again would I discourage him from becoming enchanted by my feminine wiles and whimsy.

But alas, Elevator Guy never graced the elevator again.  Or at least not at the same times I did.  Weeks went by.  Months, even.  I moved on to Tire Rotating Guy, Pizza Delivery Guy, and Elevator Guy No. 2, in that order.

I started taking art classes, which happen to be in the same building as my office.  One day I had a brilliant idea and brought a change of clothes to work.  It was all fine and dandy until I realized I hadn't thought to include a change of shoes.  So when it was time to go home, I thought "why go to all the trouble of changing back into my work clothes? It's past 6, no one's going to see me anyway."  Still decked out in stained khaki shorts and a T-shirt that I got in fifth grade but just now fits (who orders adult-sized T-shirts for fifth-graders?), I shoved my feet into my high heels and had a good laugh at how ridiculous I looked.

Note: If you haven't read my very first post, gumball God might seem a little random.  Click here for some context.

Post-Note Note: Did I set today's entire post in an elevator because I didn't feel like drawing a whole lot?  Maybe.

Post-Post-Note-Note Note: I really hope it's not sacrilegious to draw God like that.  I might ask for forgiveness just in case.