What a morning. Traffic was savage; I’ve legit got seventy-five e-mails to answer; and, judging by my blinking landline, someone was aggro enough to leave me a voice mail over the weekend. I swear—if anyone even thinks about talking to me before I’ve had my second La Croix, I’m going to fucking snap.

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 see this look on my face? It’s not “resting asshole face.” It’s “I-need-twenty-four-goddam-ounces-of-cran-razz-in-my face face.” This dog isn’t on a leash anymore, bro. And I’m not talking about some adorbs little corgi, either—I’m a pit bull, and my blood thirst won’t be quenched until I’ve crushed a pair of La Croix.

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.

Do you know what La Croix means? It’s French for “Summer in a Can, Asshat.” Sipping a piña colada on the beach is nice, but it’s a distant second to cracking open that fourth coconut La Croix at the end of a long day. And don’t even get me started on all the soda hounds spouting off their “La Croix isn’t even sweet” bullshit. You know what else isn’t sweet? Diabetes. You just got dunked on by science.

But go ahead, La Croix haters, keep destroying your body with that artificially sweetened trash. I won’t tell you how to live your life, so don’t tell me how to live mine, you half-legged turd. Yeah, I know that doesn’t even make sense—guess my synapses aren’t on fleek yet, and they won’t be until they’ve been level-set with a fluid pound of melon-grapefruit fizzy water.

La Croix isn’t just a drink to me; it’s my entire goddam identity. I’ve got to stay on brand. Double-fisting a pair of tangerine-flavored waters is my way of letting everyone know that I’m hydrated as fuck, and this conference call is about to be lit. If that bothers you, then I’m happy to take this offline.