Sobe (fiction)

Polishing off my can of Sobe Arush (which I had to Google because the name is so stupid and, for all you uncool dimwits out there, it’s an abbreviation of “Adrenaline Rush”), I paused and, while gently placing the empty can on my coffee ringed desk, thought to myself, “I hope one day the highlight of my day will involve something more than scoring two packs of gum for a buck at Pharmasave”.
Then I mulled the concept of a beverage that insinuates that one might have an adrenaline rush while drinking it. I don’t want to have an adrenaline rush now. I don’t want my body to exhibit “fight or flight” readiness. I just wanted to feel less sleepy. But it’s all good. I’m more alert and prepared for an assault on my person. And I have discovered why the gum was two for a dollar: it tastes like perfume.
Sobe Arush. The last (and also, coincidentally, first) time I had an “energy drink” I was driving with my boyfriend to Alaska and we were both really tired so we pulled over and bought a couple. I drank mine first and felt like I had just taken a snort of cocaine except, instead of becoming really chatty and animated, I started gripping the steering wheel with a fierce tenacity and trying to discern if my heart had just started beating erratically. You would think, given that prior reaction, I might be less inclined to try another energy drink. But you can’t possibly know how tired I am today.
Oddly, there really isn’t any reason for me to be tired. I didn’t stay up an hour or two past my bedtime drinking and listening to music like I sometimes do. Nor did I sleepwalk, awaking to find myself in the garbage room of my apartment (which is outside and requires a key for re-entry and I must say it was a really fun intercom call to my neighbor at 2am on that particular Tuesday). I didn’t invite Josh over for the sole purpose of sex, only to have him want to “talk” for an hour afterwards as he is wont to do which drives me nuts because after I get off all I really want to do is sleep, but no, I need to feign attentiveness and then get up and do the “thanks for the random sex” shuffle while seeing him to the door.
Maybe it’s the physical demands of keeping my neck perpetually tense because I can’t stand the whinging old bitch that I have to share an office with. If I hear one more story about how smart her Shitzu is I’m going to say something really nasty like, “Shut up” or maybe “Wow, your dog sounds like some sort of wunderkind. It would be a shame if someone broke into your house while you were at work and put the dog in the freezer. By the way, I won’t be in tomorrow – vacation day”. Possibly it’s the fact that my job itself seems to suck the life blood out of me, but it pays really well and I don’t think being an actuary harms anyone so I keep doing it.
Arush. What a dumb moniker. My mom used to tell me I should be in marketing because I exhibited signs of creativity and have a sense of humor (though you wouldn’t know it to look at me, or to talk to me for that matter). I could market something better.
Just not right now, cause I’m tired.