Yes, I am an addict. That’s the first thing DC lovers must admit. We are stubborn and angsty without our Diet Cokes and nothing, I mean nothing, will kill our craving unless it’s one of those pretty silver cans sweating in front of us. Or, even better, a giant cardboard cup filled with the heaven that is a Fountain Diet Coke. Is there anything better? I think not, and anyone who tells you otherwise is either a  A) Coke head (Note: not the same thing as a Lindsay Lohan coke head) B) a Pepsi Whore (EW) or C) stupid.

I’ll be honest and confess that I hated Diet Coke in the beginning. I thought it was “fake” and “disgusting.” My friend loved to order it with every meal and I just scowled at her with disgust. “Why do you even drink that,” I would say over my giant glass of water. “You know, it might kill you.” Her answer was always the same: “Honestly, I just can’t stop. And you won’t know until you try.”

So I did. The first sip, I spat out the coke and said it tasted like cough syrup. And then another sip and another. Then I started ordering DC when I had a salad, or just when I was out with friends. Then I was buying it on the way to class. And soon after, the cravings began. I started to suffer from light headaches, my fingers started shaking. My fridge was filled with nothing but cans of DC and a jar of pickles. I was hooked.

Diet Coke is one of those things, like Taylor Swift or rompers, that either people love or hate. There is no middle ground. There is no “It’s OK.” It’s either “OMG DIET COKE” or “Ew, Diet Coke?!” And I’m always trying to lure in the non-believers. “It tastes so crisp! How can you not like it?” And they just stare at me in horror as I chug another one and crush the silver can against my forehead. But it is. Nothing quenches my thirst (be it at breakfast, dinner, on the beach or after the bar) like a giant Diet Coke. It’s like an icy, comforting hug from a friend soul mate.

And I know for a fact I’m not the only one who thinks so. The Diet Coke Obsession is a cult movement, sorta like Scientology… but a lot less weird. And a lot more delicious. Hell, DC even fueled President Barack Obama’s presidential campaign! Yes, Diet Coke put Obama in the White House.

That’s one powerful beverage.

God, Diet Coke, I f**king love you.

Who is J.R. Rotem? (besides a second rate music producer)

Why is he having sex with Britney Spears? (other than for drugs or money)

And most importantly, how is Britney’s drug-addled, sleep deprived, mess of a body carrying a third child?

Call me harsh if you want, but this isn’t about talking trash for the hell of it.

This is straight up sad. Tragic. Infuriating.

Not only because Britney’s life is in shambles and she doesn’t seem to notice, but because when it all come down to it…the girl is not on this planet.

Had Britney not been the most popular girl on the planet 7 years ago, she’d be on Maury, crying her eyes out backstage while the crowd booed her and Maury assured her that he’d help her find the real father.

But here is where my ranting ends because when it comes to addicts and the people who enable them (ahem…Rotem…) there is no getting through to them.

So instead, we’ve generated a picture of what this new bundle of joy is going to look like! I mean that’s all that really matters anyway because there’s an 95% chance this kid isn’t going to be sharp enough to rely on anything but looks.

Again…tragic.

The only question I have left is, who makes an uglier baby…K-Fed or J.R.? Or maybe it’s just Britney?

If she’s pregnant, should Britney have the baby?