I crave for root beer. I have to wait six more months though before I can have my first taste of it in years. No, I did not move to Antarctica nor do I live in an underdeveloped country, although our congressmen seem bent on proving that we are incapable idiots living in one.
We have root beer here but restaurants and fast food chains don’t seem to serve them anymore. Canned root beer is available in some stores but the remaining months of my pregnancy and the months after that must be devoted to keeping my sugar levels low to ensure that my child doesn’t suffer from developmental difficulties.
I can barely keep my discipline. I remember when I was growing up in Baguio. There were self-service stores that allowed us to mix all the soft drink brands in our cups. When it came to root beer though, I always drank it solo. It was like a sacred drink of sorts and I was its priestess.
What made me suddenly remember root beer?
I read somewhere on the net (or did someone tell me the story) that he (the storyteller) was barred from entering an establishment because he was carrying a can of root beer. The establishment pointed out that he could not enter because the can had the word “beer” on it. Well, I thought only congressmen were semantically challenged.
If root beer is an alcoholic drink, I must have become an alcoholic at the tender age of 8. Apparently though, I seem to be undergoing a withdrawal period of sorts. My symptoms include irritability, insanity and impatience over Con-Ass.
I can only drool at that fridge in Watson’s.
*Photo from Free Stock Photos