Maybe I am the devil

Ok so today I realized I just might be the devil, but I was determined not to be a liar (See Linda Blair Blog). I mean I really couldn’t help it….anyone in my position could have done it…I couldn’t help it, I was weak and back sliding…I had to do it. Ok so we have a refrigerator in the kitchen in the office here. It has been my nemesis, testing me, taunting me time and again with its contents. Being that it’s the middle east, our units no longer come stocked with the standard vending machines selling fat pills and sugar fixes. (You know I read somewhere that someone going through caffeine withdrawls exhibits the same brain wave patterns as a cocaine fiend jonesing) So now I am unable to pop in a couple of quarters and sit hunched over my twinkie growling viciously at anyone who interferes with my feeding. I do drink a lot of water which we have in abundance here, but it never quite as tasty as a soda, particularly one marked with the name of someone who pisses you off. Actually I don’t drink anything that other people put their names on more out of karma than courtesy. I remember back once upon a time when I lived in the United States and I had my own refrigerator and an odd little Guatemalan roommate (you know who you are!), I started having to put my name on the juice in the refrigerator and hiding the cereal because this little guy ate about 10 bowls of cereal a day and did keg stands on the juice. I would open the refrigerator to get a cup of juice (that I had bought maybe the day before) and it would be missing in action before I even got a glass. So in honor of all the times I went dejectedly from my refrigerator to throttle the person who ate/drank the last of whatever I had been looking forward to eating all day, I suffered silently and longingly at the tasty treats my coworkers had unmistakeably labeled their own. After an excruciatingly painful first 2 hours, I was desperate for some psuedo-caffeine. I circled the refrigerator like a scavenging hyena on the plains, eyeing my prey; a can of diet coke labeled “Big H”. It whispered to me from the kitchen to my desk “Drink me, DRINK ME!”. I would like to tell you I walked away, that I was able to preserve some of my rapidly deteriorating dignity and integrity but I did not. With beady bloodshot eyes glistening I pounced and squirreled myself away into a corner and furtively drank my pilfered item. I then destroyed the evidence like the devious little criminal I was. Now the plan was, I would go to midnight chow and replace the coke before I was discovered and punished with red hot fire pokers. Of course this would be the day there was a post wide shortage of diet cokes much like the Great Orange Gatorade drought of the month prior. I paced the floors mapping out a strategy. I could wait it out and hope it would not be discovered before I could obtain another coke. I could feign knowledge and let it become a great American mystery like the caped crapper of the battalion leaving floaters in the commanders toilet. In the end my conscience got the best of me so I decided bribery and groveling was the best approach. I went up to “Big H” bearing gifts of starbursts and tootsie pops and promises of eternal servitude. I guess the idea of a hot blond in bondage worked for him. I was forgiven and given rights to all future soda’s residing in said refrigerator. Sometimes life is good here…