Sugarhigh

There's a fire drill happening between my ears. Not a huge, blazing eight-alarm fire, but not a tame kitten-up-the tree alarm either. More like...someone's burning trash in a drum in their backyard, and it's been a dry season, and there's a fire ban in effect. It's like that: moderately urgent, moderately jarring. Or it would be moderate if it wasn't taking place inside my head cavity, which it is. And I think my head has an echo effect because the fire drill between my ears is causing my jaw to seize up.

And you just know it's Jason's fault.

He's been serving me Pepsi all night, you see. Despite the fact that it's diet Pepsi that I adore, and diet Pepsi to which my system is accommodated, and diet Pepsi that I've been addicted to for 17 years and counting.

And I knew it was wrong.

"Does this taste flat to you?" I asked.

He thought not.

"Does this taste thick to you?" I asked.

Again, he thought not. But he put extra ice in my glass to appease me.

And like a fool, I drank it. And I probably drank more of it than usual because of these ultra-inviting straws I bought, pink and orange swirls that just say "drinking is fun!", and it is, so I did.

If I wake up tomorrow without teeth, I won't be surprised.

Of course, that takes for granted that I might actually fall asleep at some point, which I strongly doubt.

"Did ten thousand flies just start humming Yellow Submarine?"

"Um, no."

"Are you sure? Because I can hear them."