I LOVE bubble water.
Like some people drink a hundred Diet Cokes a day, you have to rip cans of La Croix style drinks from my hands. Although, I’m not so bougie that I need to drink La Croix. I’m good with a generic brand I buy at Jewel Osco called Soleil.
The only problem I have with it is the guilt I feel about making waste (empty cans) every time I crack one open.
When Tina read this New Yorker blip titled, “Don’t Even Think About Talking to Me Until I’ve Had My Second La Croix,” she knew she had to forward it to me for my reading enjoyment.
Some fun parts:
It’s impossible for me to live my best life until I’ve housed some fruit-infused sparkling water. So I just can’t even with you right now, O.K.? It’s Monday, I’m tired, and if I don’t get another can of Pamplemousse in me soon I’m liable to bite someone’s head off.
You must think I’ve got a problem. Well, you’re right—I totes do have a problem. I’m literally dying over here, and my thirsty ass will swipe left on anyone who tries to stop me from feeding the dragon twelve ounces of that sweet, sweet peach-pear bubble water.
Why am I so triggered, you ask? Because La Croix is the goat (Greatest of All Thegoddamseltzers). Don’t even think about trying to cuck me with that Polar bullshit. My body is a temple, and I only baptize my palate in the cool, refreshing waters of La Croix.
Read it in full via the above link.