The following is the tragic story of a misguided soft drink. A tear-jerking tale of love, loss, and regret. The story is my own, for I am Diet Coke.
The Rise And Fall Of Diet Coke
In the world of carbonated beverages, one has to be strong to survive. For instance: Sprite rules the caffeine free market with an iron fist. Pepsi paves the path for future cola addictions. RC Cola rules the gutter with its curiously gnarly flavor and cult following.
And then there’s me: Diet Coke. I am everyone’s favorite loser… a prestigious reject in a sea of teeth-staining cola.
I was originally created to cater to obese people. That way, they could feel good about becoming plumper, as they would do it in a less hasty fashion. I was born to be 12 ounces of deliciousness, and merely 1 calorie of fat.
In order to reduce my fat count, my creators deduced that it was necessary to remove all vestiges of “good taste” from my ingredients list. The end result was a poppy fizz elixir that could eat the rust from a long forgotten nail. And I tasted bad (“Bad” being an understatement of the highest degree).
At first, my reception was grand. Herds of fat folk stormed the groceries in search of my kind, and the earth quaked beneath their well-endowed feet. They would consume me, love me, and most importantly: respect me.
In the time span of a single year, I became the most famous beverage to grace the Earth. But my deity-like status was short lived.
It didn’t take the fat people long to realize I tasted remarkably like liquid horse sh-t. In one grand simultaneous event, they threw me to the ground in unison. They stomped upon my aluminum skeleton with vindictive zeal, and turned the other cheek to me forever.
Every once in a great while, a brave and stalwart soul will sample my disgusting juices. They often regret it immediately and burn me in effigy.
All I ever wanted was someone to love. But my flavor… my sick and grotesque taste… will forever make that impossible.