I could cause cancer in rats | My diet soda problem

I've gone three days without caffeine, or actually three days and 10 hours. I'd count the minutes but I'm too tired. Now I am not your typical three-cups-a-day coffee swiller, and I'd probably be better off if I were--if I had some kind of traditional beverage I stuck to with religious fervor--but I have this issue where I always veer towards diet soda. And diet soda makes me an irritable asshole who affects the behavior of animals. Worse yet, once I start, I can't stop. I'll get the 44 oz white trash special, and there can't be anything worse for you than what comes in a silo and tastes like chemistry.

So what does diet soda do to me? I'm naturally caffeinated anyway, and often frighten people, and then I add phenylalanine and aspartame and caffeine and I'm a squeaky monkey just short of the awkward chafing primate at the zoo. But I'm the dangerous chafing monkey, with my emotions on a cheese grater. Paco, our lovely dog, went through this phase of, well, being an asshole, and it was brought to my attention by a tiny Argentinian that perhaps he was feeding off of me. "So I'm an asshole?" I asked her in a quick and panicked glance.

Yes. A diet soda asshole.

Now the Argentinian asshole incident took place in '09, but I had been alerted as early as 2007. The epiphany was delivered unto me by a woman named Aditi. We worked at the same fledgling startup company and she told me (and I thank her eternally) that I was very distracting. She said it in the kind of deep earnestness that shows concern for the entire planet. As if I were, at that moment, not only a detriment to her focus, and our careers, but perhaps an epitome of all that's whirling out of control in this crazy world. In the reflection of her deep, dark Indian eyes, I saw the horrible timeline of caffeinated misdeeds that led to a woman gently lobbing darts into my soul.

Otto seeks guidance from someone who's not a caffeinated asshole, circa 2012.
1997: While co-hosting the Martin & Russell (I went by Jared Russell) the Coca Cola company unveils a new Mountain Dew-like soda called Surge. To promote it, they give us dozens of cases that would sit next to me in the studio. I had a huge cup that I'd fill with ice and then pour in an entire Surge six pack. Jared Russell made many poor decisions.

1999: I'm on stage and emceeing the opening of Star Wars: The Phantom Menace. I take a drink of my Death Star-sized theater pop and realize that I've had enough. It tasted like human degradation and uneducated children. It tasted like a handrail at a carnival that had been rubbed down by the hands of a serial killer and 1000 incontinent pedophiles; it was everything that was wrong with the world. After a short pause I got back to promoting the event, but I would not drink much soda until 2002.

2002: We'd just bought a house and I had three jobs. One of them was as volunteer coordinator for the Democratic Party. This was not an easy gig. America had just been attacked by Saudis and we were going to obliterate Iraq. Even the Amish were running into the streets with axes. The party of relative pacifism was about to get trounced. This meant we were awake all of the time trying find someone who might like us. This also meant I needed caffeine. I discovered diet soda.

2004: Producing a morning show meant I had to be at work at 4am. I was also hosting a night program at another radio company. I drank diet soda the way the 80s drank Tab. One time I turned on the microphone and made a high-pitched squealing noise.

2006: I had big plans to take over the world with my entertainment report I hosted out of my house. Instead, I spent much of the day praising the bursting bubbly goodness of diet soda.

2007: Distraction notice.

I remember walking back to my desk and realizing that I really wasn't even doing anything productive for the company. The only reason I was going to the office was because they had soda machine with the 16 oz bottles for the price of a 12 oz can.  And there was this other thing where I found that I enjoyed the process of getting a soda. I love going to the store and filling up the cup. I love the coins dropping into the machine and the proper package bouncing out of the bottom. I've explained to Sarah (who noted this long before me) that it might be because I grew up in the middle of the woods and I pine for the interaction of the customer experience and the magic of technology. In fact, I so enjoy the idea of soda machines that I put money in one that I found in a landfill. Nothing came out of it.
Second-hand diet soda would make him an asshole.
Here we are, somehow seven years after the indisputable truth of my soda behavior was delivered like a mallet to the groin, and I'm still battling it. I'll quit, and then, convincing myself I should have one to reward myself for not having one, I have one. And then it's another and another and I'm shrieking with autistic delight at the perfect 32 oz compliment on my drive to work. It's terrible.

When I drink it I can't think. I can't operate normally. I'm crazy. And worse, I can't write. I cannot sit down and get out even a little ditty. It's terrible. There's no upside yet I can't quit. Or couldn't. I feel that if orange juice were the cheap, accessible elixir that buoyed beverage conglomerates, that diet soda wouldn’t see the light of day. But diet soda is the moneymaker, and I hope for Aditi and diligent, hardworking people everywhere, that I've ended supporting the cartel of madness.