the end of splen-da-ta-da-ta-da-ta-dem

I saunter into coffee shops now. My heels click-click-clicking against the cold, tiled floors. Breezily I approach the counter, toss my long, dark hair behind my shoulder, and order a coffee.

Black. With room for milk and sugar.

Then, with cup in hand, I walk slowly giving careful weight and time to each step. Generously I tick-tick-tock my hips from side to side. I want to make sure the eyes of every man in the room is upon me. I want each man to see what I’ll do next. I reach for the milk.

Pour, pour, drip.

And then, with deliberate care and a quite uncommon flare, I reach for…the sugar.

Real Sugar.

I lift the unassuming brown packet into the air. And then I shake.

Vigorously.

Shake, shake, rip.

Pour.

Shake, shake, rip.

Pour.

Into the coffee it falls.

My adventures in seltzer water and late night lemon runs has signaled the end of diet coke, and in turn the end of splenda.

I am now a girl who eats raw sugar.

Yes, that girl.

And never have I felt sexier.