Diet Coke Quotes

Behold!" Percy shouted. "The god's chosen beverage. Tremble before the horror of Diet Coke!

It's truly weird how everyone just thinks they can bring me Diet Coke and everything will be okay. Especially since it's pretty much true.-Lizzie Nichols

He's not here." "Not here like he just popped around the corner to the bodega for a six-pack of Diet Coke and a box of Krispy Kremes, or not here like...

Mr. D," Grover asked timidly, "if you're not going to eat it, could I have your Diet Coke can?

He was rewarded with a silver-and-red can of soda. He brandished it at the dolphin warriors as if spraying them with bug repellant. "Behold!" Percy shouted. "The god's chosen beverage. Tremble before the horror of Diet Coke!" The dolphin-men began to panic. They were on the edge of retreat. Percy could feel it.

Whitney smacked Coop's snout while simultaneously pressing herself deeper into the couch. Coop fixed her with an unblinking ice-blue stare, gray-brown fur bristling along his spine. "Tory!" Whitney squealed. "He's going to attack!" "Maybe." I walked into the kitchen and snagged a Diet Coke from the fridge. "Try to protect your throat.

[Eating disorders] are a wonderful tool for helping you reject others before they can reject you. Example: You're at a party. The popular girls are there. You know you can never be as cool as they are, but when one of the pops a potato chip into her mouth or chooses real Coke over Diet, for that moment you are better

It feels like I'm babysitting in the Twilight Zone. I keep waiting for the parents to show up because we are out of chips and diet cokes.

Diet Coke does not contain nasty chemicals. It contains lovely and delicious carbonation, caffeine, and aspartame. What's unnatural about that?

Percy stormed over to the magical cooler. No one tried to stop him. He knocked open the lid and rummaged throught the ice. There had to be one. Please. He was rewarded with s silver-and-red can of soda. He brandished it at the dolphin warriors as if spraying them with bug repellent. "Behold!" Percy shouted. "The god's chosen beverage. Tremble before the horror of Diet Coke!

Asher smiled beatifically, as if he’d been waiting his whole life for someone to ask just that question. “How would you feel about some Mentos and Diet Coke?

The god's chosen beverage. Tremble before the horror of Diet Coke!

There is nothing more annoying than having someone tell you that everything would be fine if you were just a better pray-er. Or if you just smiled more, or stopped drinking Diet Coke. I can tell you that “Just cheer up” is almost universally looked at as the most unhelpful depression cure ever.

In the information age, the barriers just aren’t there,” he said. “The barriers are self-imposed. If you want to set off and go develop some grand new thing, you don’t need millions of dollars of capitalization. You need enough pizza and Diet Coke to stick in your refrigerator, a cheap PC to work on, and the dedication to go through with it. We slept on floors. We waded across rivers.

Rum and Coke, please," she told the bartender. Maybe that was why Liza and Bonnie never had guy trouble: great hair. She looked at Liza, racehorse-thin in purple zippered leather...Okay it wasn't just the hair. If she jammed herself into liza's dress, she'd look like Barney's slut cousin. "Diet Coke," she told the bartender.

She came back with a can of Coke and a can of Diet Coke, and handed me the nonvile one.

If someone were crushed to death trying to get a frosty can of Diet Coke, it wouldn't be my fault. I'd tried to raise the issue.

You need to be healthy. You don’t need to be thin. You don’t need to be a certain size or shape or look good in a bikini. You need to be able to run without feeling like you’re going to puke. You need to be able to walk up a flight of stairs without getting winded. You need to drink half your body weight in ounces of water every single day. You need to stretch and get good sleep and stop medicating every ache and pain. You need to stop filling your body with garbage like Diet Coke and fast food and lattes that are a million and a half calories. You need to take in fuel for you body that hasn't been processed and fuel for you mind that is positive and encouraging. You need to get up off the sofa or out of the bed and move around. Get out of the fog that you have been living in and see your life for what it is.

In the two months I had also dated Justin Fellowes, this guy in my Spanish class, though after three weeks we decided we should "see other people," which in my case was a joke, but it beat hearing him remark on everything I ate. 'I don't know why girls are always on a diet,' he'd say when I ordered a Diet Coke, and 'You should watch your starch intake' when I had a muffin.

my sex life became sort of like Diet Coke—deceptively sweet minus nutrition.

It’s not really wine,” he said. “It’s Diet Coke. And if anyone ever serves you brown wine with a foamy head, send it back.

Tonight, when Frankie sits at the table and innocently knocks over her glass of Diet Coke, Aunt Jayne starts to cry, and the translucent veil of general okayness evaporates to reveal the honest, ugly parts underneath.

We’d also left lots of time unscheduled—the long stretches of hours we’d spend at the beach or walking around or just hanging out with no plan beyond maybe getting fountain Diet Cokes. It was Sloane—you usually didn’t need more than that to have the best Wednesday of your life.

Nev tossed his pen down. “Fine. Here goes: Ren and Cals lives may be torrid for the young ones in Vail are quite horrid Bine and Cos aren’t too frail Dax and Fey never pale while Ansel and Bryn might get sordid Bryn spit Diet Coke all over the table. Mason and Ansel clapped. I was too dumbfounded to react. This is qhat quiet Nev does in his spare time? “‘Bine’?” Sabine frowned while Cosette mopped up the soda that flowed to their end of the table. “Since when am I ‘Bine’? And we never call Cosette ‘Cos.’” “It’s about cadence,” Nev said. “Sorry. I said it wasn’t very good.” “Why aren’t you and Mason in it?” Ansel asked. “Oh, he has another one about us.” Mason wiggled his eyebrows.

Diet Coke destroys tooth enamel as much as meth and crack cocaine.

Tremble before the horror of Diet Coke!

He had read a headline about Diet Coke once, which was so worrying he had chosen not to read the article.

I am fairly certain that I was the first Seven Sisters grad to eat duck liver chased with a Diet Coke in the lobby of a federal penitentiary. Then again, you never know.

most cherished desires of present-day Westerners are shaped by romantic, nationalist, capitalist and humanist myths that have been around for centuries. Friends giving advice often tell each other, ‘Follow your heart.’ But the heart is a double agent that usually takes its instructions from the dominant myths of the day, and the very recommendation to ‘follow your heart’ was implanted in our minds by a combination of nineteenth-century Romantic myths and twentieth-century consumerist myths. The Coca-Cola Company, for example, has marketed Diet Coke around the world under the slogan ‘Diet Coke. Do what feels good.’ Even what people take to be their most personal desires are usually programmed by the imagined order. Let’s consider, for example, the popular desire to take a holiday abroad. There is nothing natural or obvious about this. A chimpanzee alpha male would never think of using his power in order to go on holiday into the territory of a neighbouring chimpanzee band. The elite of ancient Egypt spent their fortunes building pyramids and having their corpses mummified, but none of them thought of going shopping in Babylon or taking a skiing holiday in Phoenicia. People today spend a great deal of money on holidays abroad because they are true believers in the myths of romantic consumerism. Romanticism tells us that in order to make the most of our human potential we must have as many different experiences as we can. We must open ourselves to a wide spectrum of emotions; we must sample various kinds of relationships; we must try different cuisines; we must learn to appreciate different styles of music. One of the best ways to do all that is to break free from our daily routine, leave behind our familiar setting, and go travelling in distant lands, where we can ‘experience’ the culture, the smells, the tastes and the norms of other people. We hear again and again the romantic myths about ‘how a new experience opened my eyes and changed my life’. Consumerism tells us that in order to be happy we must consume as many products and services as possible. If we feel that something is missing or not quite right, then we probably need to buy a product (a car, new clothes, organic food) or a service (housekeeping, relationship therapy, yoga classes). Every television commercial is another little legend about how consuming some product or service will make life better. 18. The Great Pyramid of Giza. The kind of thing rich people in ancient Egypt did with their money. Romanticism, which encourages variety, meshes perfectly with consumerism. Their marriage has given birth to the infinite ‘market of experiences’, on which the modern tourism industry is founded. The tourism industry does not sell flight tickets and hotel bedrooms. It sells experiences. Paris is not a city, nor India a country – they are both experiences, the consumption of which is supposed to widen our horizons, fulfil our human potential, and make us happier. Consequently, when the relationship between a millionaire and his wife is going through a rocky patch, he takes her on an expensive trip to Paris. The trip is not a reflection of some independent desire, but rather of an ardent belief in the myths of romantic consumerism. A wealthy man in ancient Egypt would never have dreamed of solving a relationship crisis by taking his wife on holiday to Babylon. Instead, he might have built for her the sumptuous tomb she had always wanted. Like the elite of ancient Egypt, most people in most cultures dedicate their lives to building pyramids. Only the names, shapes and sizes of these pyramids change from one culture to the other. They may take the form, for example, of a suburban cottage with a swimming pool and an evergreen lawn, or a gleaming penthouse with an enviable view. Few question the myths that cause us to desire the pyramid in the first place.

For less than the cost of a Big Mac, fries and a Coke, you can buy a loaf of fresh bread and some good cheese or roast beef, which you will enjoy much more.

In the information age, the barriers [to entry into programming] just aren't there. The barriers are self imposed. If you want to set off and go develop some grand new thing, you don't need millions of dollars of capitalization. You need enough pizza and Diet Coke to stick in your refrigerator, a cheap PC to work on, and the dedication to go through with it. We slept on floors. We waded across rivers.

I told you, Apollo, the world has many crises. Just this morning, scientists released another study tying soda to hypertension. If they continue to disparage the name of Diet Coke, I will have to smite someone!” He stormed off to plot his revenge on the health industry.

During our Texas tour we stopped at a Dallas S&M club and drank warm Diet Cokes as we watched a woman lazily whip a guy. Nothing is more depressing than a tired dominatrix.

Behold!” Percy shouted. “The god’s chosen beverage. Tremble before the horror of Diet Coke!

She just fed me cheese and Diet Coke and let me sulk on her couch for a few hours.

Mac has a sexy breakfast story.” “Really?” Eyebrows lifted, Parker set the syrup and butter on the table of the breakfast nook. “Tell all.” “It began, and sexy tales often do, when I spilled Diet Coke on my shirt.

The internet reflects us at our eccentric, absurd, trivial best. It shows us as stoned online game-players and people wearing home-made Tron suits. It reveals that we enjoy watching people blend things like an iPhone, and mix 200 litres of Diet Coke with 500 Mentos mints. Laughing babies and sneezing baby panda’s speak to us, despite having nothing to say, and we find all these things hypnotically watchable and briefly hysterical.

Betwixt and between,” I said. “That’s the worst.” “Is that a poem?” Niamh asked. “Darnell is an idiot,” Lara said, pointing a french fry menacingly at Niamh. “Besides, the problem isn’t the city. If he got a job offer there I bet you he’d move in a heartbeat. He’s just intimidated by the thought of following around a strong woman while she chases her career instead of the other way around.” “Preach!” said Niamh, raising her Diet Coke in a toast.

I did not want to spend days on end in a car with someone who made no secret of not liking me, even though he got along with almost everyone else. Something about the two of us was like mixing Diet Coke and Mentos—guaranteed instant eruption

Dionysus probably could have enlightened me, but he'd already checked us off his to-do list. 'I told you, Apollo, the world has many crises. Just this morning, scientists released another study tying soda to hypertension. If they continue to disparage the name of Diet Coke, I will have to smite someone!' He stormed off to plot his revenge on the health industry.

If you ever meet me, you will notice that I am a very simple person. I prefer Diet Coke over merlot. A hamburger over steak au-poivre. If I have done anything with my life it is because... when I really want to accomplish something- I always begin with the end goal in mind. I start with focusing on what I want to happen, then I work my way backwards. If you truly want to, you can make any dream possible. Have faith!

I brought you Diet Coke to compensate,” he said, opening the cooler. “Also, this conversation is boring.” “Right. Sorry.” She took the can he handed her and popped it open. “Really sorry. There’s nothing more boring than talking about food.” “No,” Cal said. “Talking about food is great. Talking about not having food is boring.

Whatever standard you’ve set for yourself is where you’ll end up . . . unless you fight through your instinct and change your pattern. That’s how I changed my own patterns and behaviors—how I established the rule in my life that I would no longer break a promise to myself no matter how small it was. It all began with Diet Coke.

Four Diet Cokes, three bags of Cheetos, seven grilled cheeses, and one and a half packages of Oreos later, I had a solid plan.

I am fairly certain that I was the first Seven Sisters grad to eat duck liver chased with a Diet Coke in the lobby of a federal penitentiary.

Behold! The god's chosen beverage. Tremble before the horror of Diet Coke. ~Percy Jackson

Mixing alcohol with Diet Coke will get you drunker than if you mix it with regular Coke.

Chris takes a swig of Diet Coke. He sometimes worries he is addicted to it. He had read a headline about Diet Coke once, which was so worrying he had chosen not to read the article.

The problem was that Norvaleen had been in denial and also in McDonald's, eating the cheeseburger special with fries. Evidently, the Diet Coke had not evened out the calories. What a shock.

The boy that I first saw that day at the swimming pool had turned into an honorable and kind man. He opened doors for me. He bought me Diet Coke and Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey when I had a bad day.

You’re absolutely right. You’re absolutely right. It’s staggering how you jump straight the hell into the heart of a matter. I’m goosebumps all over… By God, you inspire me. You inflame me, Bessie. You know what you’ve done? Do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve given this whole goddam issue a fresh, new, Biblical slant. I wrote four papers in college on the Crucifixion—five, really—and every one of them worried me half crazy because I thought something was missing. Now I know what it was. Now it’s clear to me. I see Christ in an entirely different light. His unhealthy fanaticism. His rudeness to those nice, sane, conservative, tax-paying Pharisees. Oh, this is exciting! In your simple, straightforward bigoted way, Bessie, you’ve sounded the missing keynote of the whole New Testament. Improper diet. Christ lived on cheeseburgers and Cokes. For all we know he probably fed the mult—

Sometimes I wish I could tell my younger self that. That it didn't matter. That the body I had then carried me up hills at Cross Country meets and through the water during the painful last lap at a swim meet, and that it should be celebrated instead of being picked away at and filled with hunger pangs. I should have gotten both the popcorn and the box of candy at the movies that night, instead of slipping away at a Diet Coke from the concession stand.

From the head table a familiar voice drawled, "Well, well, if it isn't Peter Johnson. My millennium is complete". I gritted my teeth. 'Percy Jackson . . . sir." Mr D sipped his diet coke. 'Yes. Well, as you young people say these days, whatever

When he strolled into the kitchen with Samantha, he couldn't help grinning at the adoring look on Hans's face. "Hans, a cup of coffee and a Diet Coke, please." "Of course. But I have found a new cafe mocha you might like, Miss Sam. Much less coffee aftertaste. Would you care to try it?" "I trust you, Hans," she replied, smiling at the chef. "Splendid. And might I suggest omelets for breakfast?" "Sounds good. Rick?" He nodded, wondering just when he'd lost control of his household. "That's fine.

Time is weird. That much is obvious. Sometimes I think everything happens at once, which is anything but obvious and even weirder. I feel sorry for people who brag about 'living in the moment'; they're like people who come into the cinema after the film has started or people who drink Diet Coke—they're missing out on the best part. I think time is like the dial on a radio. Most people like to settle on a station with a clear signal and no interference. But that doesn't mean you can't listen to two or even three stations at the same time; it doesn't mean synchrony is impossible. Until quite recently, people believed it was impossible for a universe to fit inside two atoms, but it fits. Why dismiss the idea that on time's radio you can listen to the entire history of humanity simultaneously?

The dining table was covered with platters of food: everything and pumpernickel bagels, everything minibagels, everything flagels, bialys, cream cheese, scallion cream cheese, salmon spread, tofu spread, smoked and pickled fish, pitch-black brownies with white chocolate swirls like square universes, blondies, rugelach, out-of-season hamantaschen (strawberry, prune, and poppy seed), and “salads”—Jews apply the word salad to anything that can’t be held in one’s hand: cucumber salad, whitefish and tuna and baked salmon salad, lentil salad, pasta salad, quinoa salad. And there was purple soda, and black coffee, and Diet Coke, and black tea, and enough seltzer to float an aircraft carrier, and Kedem grape juice—a liquid more Jewish than Jewish blood. And there were pickles, a few kinds. Capers don’t belong in any food, but the capers that every spoon had tried to avoid had found their way into foods in which they really didn’t belong, like someone’s half-empty half-decaf. And at the center of the table, impossibly dense kugels bent light and time around them. It was too much food by a factor of ten. But it had to be.

I always imagined J.K. Rowling putting quill to a paper in a remote castle overlooking a spacious Scottish estate. Currently as I write this I am in my Star Wars/Marvel themed guest room,dressed in my Grumpy cat pajamas, and looking at dozens of half empty Diet Coke cans scattered across my desk.

The barriers are self-imposed. If you want to set off and go develop some grand new thing, you don’t need millions of dollars of capitalization. You need enough pizza and Diet Coke to stick in your refrigerator, a cheap PC to work on, and the dedication to go through with it. We slept on floors. We waded across rivers.

I slipped out of the trauma bay just as the family was brought in to view the body. Then I remembered: my Diet Coke, my ice cream sandwich…and the sweltering heat of the trauma bay. With one of the ER residents covering for me, I slipped back in, ghostlike, to save the ice cream sandwich in front of the corpse of the son I could not.

I took one sip and literally spit it out. It was the grossest thing I’d ever tasted. I remember once getting a Diet Coke at a Subway without realizing that the fountain machine didn’t have enough Diet Coke syrup. That’s exactly what this fancy place’s “sparkling” water tasted like. “Something’s wrong with that water,” I protested. The

At the nurses’ station the night-shift RNs cluster on chairs, looking like birds wanting to shove their tired heads under a free wing. Their lined faces and heavy-lidded eyes show how hard it is to stay awake and alert for an entire night. I don’t work a lot of nights, but when I do I feel it. I hit a wall at 2:00 a.m., then again at 4:00. The hospital’s strong tea, bad coffee, Diet Coke from the vending machine—they all help, but nothing non-pharmaceutical will really make me feel awake for the entire night, and I’m not going down the pharmacologic road. The day after, even if I sleep all morning and afternoon, it feels as though I’m seeing the world through gauze.

The crew of the Argo II assembled at the rail and cut the grappling lines. Piper brought out her new horn of plenty and, on Percy’s direction, willed it to spew Diet Coke, which came out with the strength of a fire hose, dousing the enemy deck. Percy thought it would take hours, but the ship sank remarkably fast, filling with Diet Coke and seawater. “Dionysus,” Percy called, holding up Chrysaor’s golden mask. “Or Bacchus—whatever. You made this victory possible, even if you weren’t here. Your enemies trembled at your name…or your Diet Coke, or something. So, yeah, thank you.” The words were hard to get out, but Percy managed not to gag. “We give this ship to you as tribute. We hope you like it.” “Six million in gold,” Leo muttered. “He’d better like it.

You like me,” I say slowly with a smile. He shakes his head, fingers over his mouth to hide a growing smile. “I put a gym in my house for you and it takes stocking Diet Coke for you to realize I like you?” I press my lips together. “But do you like me? Like really like me, Thayer?” I reach over, rubbing his scruffy chin between my fingers. The light changes and he turns left. “Yeah, Sunshine, I like really like you.

Are you kidnapping me?" He side-eyes me and laughs. "By george, I think she's got it."  "Fine," I say. "But could you just make sure I have my own bed wherever you're taking me? I really need to sleep. Oh, and in six weeks, this cast has to come off. And I get hostile when I don't get my daily diet coke."  "You're awfully demanding for someone who's just been taken hostage."  "You're the moron who thought I'd make a good prisoner.

By the time we returned to the hotel room, we were laughing again. Marlboro Man was teasing me about how many clothes I’d brought on the honeymoon, and I’d punched him in the arm; he, in turn, had trapped me in the corner of the elevator and tickled me, and I’d threatened to wet my pants if he didn’t stop. And I wasn’t kidding; I’d had a glass of wine at dinner, as well as two Diet Cokes. Tickling me in an elevator wouldn’t be a good idea for very long.

Sugar substitutes aren’t any better. Many people (including me when I was overweight) turn to artificial sugars to quell their cravings without packing on the pounds. Back then I would have happily performed heart surgery with a Diet Coke in my hand if only I could have found a way to sterilize it! But ironically, although these products are supposed to aid in weight loss, they do just the opposite. That’s because products such as sucralose, saccharin, aspartame, and other nonnutritive artificial sweeteners kill your gut buddies and allow the bad bugs to multiply. Believe it or not, a Duke University study28 showed that a single Splenda packet kills 50 percent of normal intestinal flora! It’s sad but true: if you eat too much of anything sweet, your gut buddies will starve to death, and your bad bugs will live long and prosper—and multiply. Even fructose, the sugar in fruit, has been shown to be a mitochrondrial poison! There goes the neighborhood.

The French don't snack. They will tear off the endo of a fres baguette (which, if it's warm, it's practically impossible to resist) and eat it as they leave the boulangerie. And that's usually all you will see being consumed on the street. Compare that with the public eating and drinking that goes on in America: pizza, hot dogs, nachos, tacos, heroes, potato chips, sandwiches, jerricans of coffee, half-gallon buckets of Coke (Diet, of cours) and heaven knows what else being demolished on the hoof, often on the way to the aerobic class.

So you get fancily dressed and sometimes professionally made up. A driver in a town car picks you up, which makes you feel weird and apologetic. An upbeat public relations person you don’t know leads you onto a red carpet where you’re shouted at to “look here!” and “here” at a hundred strangers with flashbulbs for faces. And then, after those brief moments of manufactured glamour, you find yourself in a regular old creaky movie theater seat, sipping Diet Coke from a sweaty plastic cup and salting your fingers with warm popcorn. Lights dim. Mandated enthusiasm begins.

I found out that telling researchers "This is where your methods work very well" is vastly better than telling them "This is what you guys don't know." So when I presented to what was until then the most hostile crowd in the world, members of the American Statistical Association, a map of the four quadrants, and told them: your knowledge works beautifully in these three quadrants, but beware the fourth one, as this is where the Black Swans breed, I received instant approval, support, offers of permanent friendship, refreshments (Diet Coke), invitations to come present at their sessions, even hugs.

I wanted that Diet Coke. But the lines to order made no sense. Most people were huddled in random patterns, gazing up at the menu boards, eyes glazed over, touching their chins, pointing, nodding. “Are you in line?” I kept asking them. Nobody would answer me. Finally I just approached a young black boy in a visor behind the counter. I ordered my Diet Coke. “What size?” he asked me. He pulled out four cups in ascending order of size. The largest size stood about a foot high off the counter. “I’ll take that one,” I said. This felt like a great occasion. I can’t explain it. I felt immediately endowed with great power. I plunked my straw in and sucked.

You need to be healthy. You don’t need to be thin. You don’t need to be a certain size or shape or look good in a bikini. You need to be able to run without feeling like you’re going to puke. You need to be able to walk up a flight of stairs without getting winded. You need to drink half your body weight in ounces of water every single day. You need to stretch and get good sleep and stop medicating every ache and pain. You need to stop filling your body with garbage like Diet Coke and fast food and lattes that are a million and a half calories. You need to take in fuel for your body that hasn’t been processed and fuel for your mind that is positive and encouraging. You need to get up off the sofa or out of the bed and move around. Get out of the fog that you have been living in and see your life for what it is.

The key here is food choice while fasting. If you eat a diet high in protein and healthy fat during times of nonfasting, your sex drive will likely increase. If your diet has a deficit of healthy protein and fats—or if it is, in fact, that Coke and Doritos diet we discussed before—you may still encounter issues in the bedroom. As I often say, intermittent fasting will benefit you regardless of how you eat—but there are limits to what it can do.

b. The imagined order shapes our desires. Most people do not wish to accept that the order governing their lives is imaginary, but in fact every person is born into a pre-existing imagined order, and his or her desires are shaped from birth by its dominant myths. Our personal desires thereby become the imagined order’s most important defences. For instance, the most cherished desires of present-day Westerners are shaped by romantic, nationalist, capitalist and humanist myths that have been around for centuries. Friends giving advice often tell each other, ‘Follow your heart.’ But the heart is a double agent that usually takes its instructions from the dominant myths of the day, and the very recommendation to ‘Follow your heart’ was implanted in our minds by a combination of nineteenth-century Romantic myths and twentieth-century consumerist myths. The Coca-Cola Company, for example, has marketed Diet Coke around the world under the slogan, ‘Diet Coke. Do what feels good.

And now here I was in McDonald's again for the first time since my earlier fracas. I vowed to behave myself, but McDonald's is just too much for me. I ordered a chicken sandwich and a Diet Coke. 'Do you want fries with that?' the young man serving me asked. I hesitated for a moment, and in a pained but patient tone said: 'No. That's why I didn't ask for fries, you see.' 'We're just told to ask like,' he said. 'When I want fries, generally I say something like, "I would like some fries, too, please." That's the system I use.' 'We're just told to ask like,' he repeated. 'Do you need to know the other things I don't want? It is quite a long list. In fact, it is everything you serve except for the two things I asked for.' 'We're just told to ask like,' he repeated yet again, but in a darker voice, and deposited my two items on a tray and urged me, without the least hint of sincerity, to have a nice day. I realized that I probably wasn't quite ready for McDonald's yet.

Some people prescribe God for depression or self-harm, and I think that can be really helpful for some people who aren't me. Some claim that depression can be "prayed away" or is caused when you don't have enough God in your life. I tried God once but it didn't work well so I cut the dose by a third and just had "Go." Go where? I asked. No one answered. Probably because I didn't have enough God in my life. Someone else told me that capitulating to my depression made me seem ungrateful because Jesus died for that I wouldn't have to suffer, but frankly Jesus seemed to have more than his fair share of bullshit in his life too. That guy got nailed to death. I bet people walking past Jesus were like, "Wow. That guy should have had more God in his life." Or maybe they just sent him those e-mails that say, "Let Go and Let God," or "God listens to knee-mail." Probably not though because e-mail wasn't popular yet, but I think that's for the best because there is nothing more annoying than having someone tell you that everything would be fine if you were just a better pray-er. Or if you just smiled more, or stopped drinking Diet Coke.

Back in bed I listen to every sound. The plastic tarp over the table on the balcony crunching in the cold wind. the two short clicks in the walls before the heat comes on with a low whoosh. I hear a constant base hum all around, the nervous system of the building, carrying electricity and gas and phone conversations to all our respective little boxes. I listen to it all, the constant, the rhythmic, and the random. It's hard to measure the night by sound, but it can be done. I know that when the traffic noise is quietest, it's about 4:30 in the morning. I know that when the 'Times' hits the door, it's around 5. Now the clock says it's morning, 5:45, but the November sky still says midnight. I hear the elevator ding twenty yards down the hall outside our door. Seven seconds later, I hear his keys in our lock, then his heavy backpack hitting the floor. I hear the refrigerator door open, the unsealing vacuum wheezing as the cold inside air meets the dry heat in the apartment. The cupboard door. A glass. The crescendoing fizz of a new two-liter Diet Coke bottle opening. It's a one-sided conversation with no one actually talking. I lie in the dark, close my eyes, and try not to listen to his movements around apartment. these are the sounds of our life together before it got so messy. I want to say something back. Anything, anything that sounds like things sounded last summer. Even just to myself. Just something out loud. The inside of my eyelids turn pink. My door has been opened and the light from the hallway shines through them. I won't open them. There is no noise. Like an eclipse, the world behind my closed eyes goes dark again. For just one second, before I feel a kiss on my right eye. I keep them closed. A kiss on the left one. I open them. Jack looks down at me and closes his eyes. He leans forward and puts his forehead on my chest and goes limp. ''Blues Clues' is on,' he says softly into my tee shirt. His muffled voice vibrating only a half inch away from my heart.

In 1978, the typical teenage boy in the United States drank about seven ounces of soda every day; today he drinks nearly three times that amount, deriving 9 percent of his daily caloric intake from soft drinks. Soda consumption among teenaged girls has doubled within the same period, reaching an average of twelve ounces a day. A significant number of teenage boys are now drinking five or more cans of soda every day. Each can contains the equivalent of about ten teaspoons of sugar. Coke, Pepsi, Mountain Dew, and Dr Pepper also contain caffeine. These sodas provide empty calories and have replaced far more nutritious beverages in the American diet. Excessive soda consumption in childhood can lead to calcium deficiencies and a greater likelihood of bone fractures. Twenty years ago, teenage boys in the United States drank twice as much milk as soda; now they drink twice as much soda as milk. Soft-drink consumption has also become commonplace among American toddlers. About one-fifth of the nation’s one- and two-year-olds now drink soda.

We had read about snorting chocolate and talked about it on the show, and someone in Canada, where it’s being sold, sent us some. It had fancy packaging and a little spring-loaded double nasal catapult. Goudeau cocked it and put two little coke-spoons full of their fancy chocolate-and-spice mixture in it, one on each side, and I held it under my nose, breathed in, and hit the button. We had checked with CrayRay, and he said it wouldn’t affect the diet, but it probably wasn’t healthy. I love chocolate, and I got a big blast of it up my nose and down into my lungs. I kinda wanted to love it. The idea that I’d be snorting chocolate in my office while I was writing this appealed to me. It was a little fun, but really no more fun than walking into a Godiva store at a mall. It was the good smell of chocolate, and that was about it. We all tried it and enjoyed it a little, and then the headaches hit and we were done. I got to the show that night and was light-headed from not eating, and my throat and voice were fucked-up from snorting chocolate. I’m an idiot. Matt

you would have to eat three pounds of carrots for the sugar equivalent of one bottle of Coke.

Have you ever walked into a church and poured a whole can of Diet Coke into the wine cup? How about whipping out a cigarette and smoking a Camel Non-Filtered right in the middle of the sermon? Perhaps you were the one who stuffed your face with McDonald’s every Sunday for a year during the service. This is insane behavior, isn’t it? Then why do you treat your body any differently than you treat your faith? Everything you are is encapsulated in your body.

Keep in mind that I have a lot of experience serving Diet Coke. You might find it interesting to learn that it’s the most annoying beverage a flight attendant can pour for a passenger in flight, because in the time it takes us to fill one cup, we could have served an entire row of passengers. For some reason the fizz at 35,000 feet doesn’t go down as quickly as it does for other sodas, so flight attendants end up standing in the aisle just waiting to pour a little more . . . and a little more . . . and a little more . . . until passengers sitting nearby become impatient and begin shouting out drink orders I can never remember.

It would be my first official reintroduction to the college community since I’d switched from regular to Diet Coke.

I had to sit right next to her and listen to the trash-compactor noises of her eating all the popcorn and slurping away at the Diet Coke like a horse at a water trough.

So yeah, maybe this will be the rest of our lives. Pot roast and Diet Cokes and my parents making eyes at each other. As for those slaps and punches and hateful words, we'll just sweep those under the rug or wherever they can go.

walked back to Wood with a Wiener schnitzel on a stick and two Diet Cokes. He sat on the curb next to Wood, handed him a Diet Coke, and said, “For your own good.” “Fuck you very much,” Wood said. “But I suppose you’re right.

I looked down and realized I had champagne, Diet Coke, red wine, Coors Light, bottled water, and hot tea on my tray all at once. The rich, I realized, were different from you and me only in their unlimited access to beverages. For a moment I was intensely happy.

The crew headed to Tequila Jodi’s for a celebration. Raven and Vaughn arrived an hour after everyone. They made up for their tardiness by binge drinking a bottle of tequila. Well, Vaughn did. Raven binged on a pitcher of Diet Coke. “I might be binging for two!” she announced then sat down to look over the pictures of her niece and nephew. Harlow showed up with Toni. While her mom joined Jodi at a back table, Harlow made a beeline for Winnie. “Are you okay?” she asked, studying Winnie’s face. “Yes. Are you?” Harlow rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.” Winnie glanced at me and I saw such peace in her eyes. When she looked back at Harlow, her smile brightened. “Lark and the babies are okay. Today is a good day.” Hugging her sister, Winnie couldn’t stop smiling. “Are you drunk?” Harlow asked. “I’m happy.” Harlow studied her sister again and checked her hands for new bruises. “Do you plan to sleep at home tonight?” “No, I’m staying with Dylan.” “Any bad memories about the baby?” “Only hopeful thoughts about the future.” Harlow frowned at me then shrugged. “I can imagine you two making a decent looking kid. Your pretty eyes and hair and his… well shaped head. Yeah, it’ll work.” Running a hand over my head, I laughed. “My head shape is helluva sexy.” Winnie’s calm infected Harlow who laughed and ordered a soda. The sisters danced with Bailey and Sawyer to Amos Moses. I knew Winnie wasn’t comfortable showing off in front of people. Whenever she got nervous, she glanced at me and relaxed. “Wedding bells,” Nick said from beside me. “You didn’t waste any time.” “She calms the asshole in me and I calm the broken girl in her. What’s there to wait for?” Giving me a grin, Nick shrugged. “When you know, you know.

Carmack disdained talk of highfalutin things like legacies but when pressed would allow at least one thought on his own. “In the information age, the barriers just aren’t there,” he said. “The barriers are self-imposed. If you want to set off and go develop some grand new thing, you don’t need millions of dollars of capitalization. You need enough pizza and Diet Coke to stick in your refrigerator, a cheap PC to work on, and the dedication to go through with it. We slept on floors. We waded across rivers.

It needs to be said. I didn’t have the strongest stomach. I wasn’t the type of guy who could hold your hair while you puked and not be affected. Did that make me the worst possible boyfriend ever? Maybe. It’s entirely possible I’d throw you a towel and run out of the room gagging. I know it’s romantic to women—oh, my gosh, he’s so sweet he held my hair while I puked up last night’s hot dog and enough rum and Diet Coke to kill Captain Jack Sparrow! Seriously? What do you women read? How the hell is that romantic? Give me one reason. One. Just one. I don’t even need three. Oh, wow, silence, big shock. You wanna know why? Because it’s gross. Because if I had long hair and I were leaning over the toilet, God, you would not, ever, in your right mind waltz into the bathroom, put it in a ponytail, rub my back, wipe my mouth, and think, Wow, I really love this guy, oh, look a cracker!

Raspberry iced tea for Irving, water for Tom, a soda for me, and Hans insisted that I bring Mr. Addison a nice chilled root beer." She handed them over, then leaned against Rick's arm as she popped the tab of her Diet Coke and took a drink. "Anything yet?" she whispered. "Not so far," Richard answered, careful not to move. Sometimes he felt like a hunter trying to lure a deer into a trap. Don't move, or she'll remember you're there and run away .

Men leaped and I let myself be caught. For a while, anyway, until my sex life became sort of like Diet Coke—deceptively sweet minus nutrition.

Get her a Diet Coke, Della," Miranda said. "Maybe the sugar will give her some brainpower." "It's fake sugar," Della answered. "I know. But haven't you ever heard the saying fake it until you make it?

Also, he is alleged to drink upward of twelve Diet Cokes a day and sleep very little. Does he suffer from a substance- (in this case caffeine-) induced sleep disorder? He has a horrible diet and does not exercise, which may contribute to or exacerbate his other possible disorders.

It’s the same with kids and a diet of coke, hamburgers and nasty little crunchy snacks. If they like it, why worry about them eating fruit and veg and other more demanding food? And I’ll tell you why worry, because otherwise their teeth will all fall out and they’ll all pop off early from degenerative diseases. You can’t thrive on pap, you know. Not in food, not in music, not in education, not in religion.

Shortly after that, a new batch of police officer recruits turned up at the police academy next door. One day a couple of weeks later my life changed forever when a little red-haired ball of fire named Joanna Brady—the newly minted Sheriff of Cochise County—marched into the Roundhouse, stepped up to my bar, and ordered herself a Diet Coke.

He was doing what he had always wanted to do: code games. And he was happy, in the moment as always, not thinking at all about what would come next. If he could be here working on games with enough money for food and shelter, that was good enough for him. As he told the other guys on one of his very first days, put him in a closet with a computer, a pizza, and some Diet Cokes, and he would be fine.

I did always like diet Coke,” I chimed in as I ate some wolf jerky. “See?” Tara said, and she gave Anna an ‘I-told-you-so’ look. “Tav also likes to eat wolves, and he lived in the forest for a year,” Anna said with a wry smile before she turned to me with a grin. “No offense, Tav.

Infact, the microscopic examination of a Fatty liver shows no difference whether it is from alcohol or diet cokes.

If Linda McCartney sausage rolls came in boxes of forty-eight I would be doing batch bakes of those and then smashing them down with seven cans of Diet Coke. That’s my other issue – Diet Coke.

At noon, I downed a ham sandwich and Diet Coke and then I saw more patients. One eight-year-old boy had visited a chiropractor for “spinal alignment” eighty times in the past year. He had no back pain. It was a con job perpetrated by several area chiropractors. They offer the parents a free TV or VCR if they bring their kids in. Then they bill Medicaid for the visit. Medicaid is a wonderful, necessary thing, but it gets abused like a Don King undercard. I once had a sixteen-year-old boy rushed to the hospital in an ambulance—for routine sunburn. Why an ambulance instead of a taxi or subway? His mother explained that she’d have to pay for those herself or wait for the government to reimburse. Medicaid pays for the ambulance right away. At