Everybody knows the dating cliché ‘there’s plenty of fish in the sea’, but do you know what else there is? Trash. A shit tonne. I’m not sentimental, but I have trash taste. I can’t help it. I have so much free time in a post-pandemic world that I thought I’d burden myself with other people’s problems to add a little spice to my dreary life. So, call me Julie Andrews because ‘these are a few of my favourite things.’
In particular, I love collecting bad-tasting energy drinks and placing them on the top shelf of my fridge. You know the ones I mean. Those chemically filled ones you got hooked on as an edgy fourteen-year-old because the school didn’t give you enough jittering anxiety? Well, call me a connoisseur. I collect Monster energy drinks whose sub-par band write whiny songs about unrequited love, drugs and ‘rock and roll’ in the twenty-first century. Whatever that means.
Be it Original, Coffee or one of the many flavours – a full or an empty can, it makes no difference. So at best, they keep that adrenaline going as I gulp a shot of it. And at worst, the overly sweet medical smell lingers in my nose, reminding me of all the bad decisions I made the previous night.
They promise to keep you going, supporting you through the day. Yet, they are sleep thieves, anxiety-inducing and overall, a piece of shit. It’s temporary bliss, a moment where you are over the moon to feel that swirling warmth inside, only to discover that it’s just gas or worse – vomit. I know ‘my body is a temple, but I’m going to fill it with shit anyway and perform some exorcism through exercise because that’s how it works, right? Complete a downward dog and pray you can forget the previous night spent with them.
And let’s not forget the mind-altering deadly potion of Monster bombs because we as a species are not supposed to last. We take ‘here for a good time, not a long time’ very literally. Who would have thought mixing a stimulant (Monster) with a depressant (alcohol) was the answer to our prayers? Alcohol alleviates all common sense, and when paired with Monster, you aren’t returning to your place. You have one taste of the bomb, and then you continue to crave the euphoria. You crave the quiet mind as you voraciously down your poison and live in the moment. And yes, you wake up and roll over to face the Monster in the bed. Frantically recalling what happened and realising it all went wrong when the bombs came out, vowing to never repeat.
While you grow tolerant and dare I say it, a love for Monster, all you’ll ever be is just a word or phrase on their can. You won’t get that love song or be with them in public. No, you’re their dirty little secret. If anything, you’re a step for them to climb the social ladder, where they project their wrongdoings onto you, like the sophist they are.
Monster isn’t for everyone. Yet, it’s inescapable growing up and cult-like. From MySpace days to TikTok, Monster is on a pedestal in Western culture. It’s the equivalent of liquid cocaine for the not-so-edgy. And when you think a generation’s interest in Monster flat lines, Monster churn out new choices. That’s if you could call it that because fundamentally, it’s all the same shit, different year. Maybe it is the can’s tortured artist façade. Or the iconography associated with societal disillusionment. Or even the fact that they are a little broken. It lures you and me in.
When you’re next in a shop and come across that familiar face, slowly reverse out of the aisle and remember, nothing is worth those adrenaline-filled heart attacks. Of course, nostalgia will run free, but you’re too old for that shit now. Remember, trash attracts trash. So on that note, therapy, anyone?
A Journey to the Centre of Me 