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Hypnotize This, B.I.G.

Let’s get one thing straight: A “crunchy con” I am not. I don’t feng shui, or fool with tarot cards, or follow my horoscope, or recycle. God forbid, the last one especially.

So it was not at all ordinary for me to have woken up several weeks ago with the yen to indulge in hypnotherapy.

Possessing not one bit of go-with-the-flow goodness, I spent that morning interviewing hypno-therapists with the determined fervor that should be reserved for, I don’t know, General Petraeus and his ilk at a “special ops recon” rendezvous.

I liked not one of them and scoffed at their new-age pablum, sparing their poor souls nary a scintilla of mercy.

After two hours on the phone, my cell battery’s death coincided with the end of my brief foray into hypnotherapy … or so I thought.

But alas, the stars must have aligned, even in spite of my total apathy about the significance of their alignment.

Already starting to fill Mary Moon’s Birkenstocks, I “clicked” with the eleventh hypnotherapist I called.

I mean it, people. We vibed.

That was exactly 38 days ago, and it’s been 38 days since I’ve had a Pepsi.

Now, I can’t be sure if that seems monumental to you folks, but let me assure you of the gravity of that fact.

I was a Pepsi junkie, people. I could quite literally feel the dopamine surge at even the hiss of a can opening.

Crazy, particularly from someone who’s never even done weed, right? (For the record, I’ve been repeatedly corrected on the point that you “smoke” - not “do” - marijuana, but I stand by my verb).

Anyway, in my quest to eliminate High Fructose Corn Syrup from my life, I knew I had to get rid of the only remaining culprit in my kitchen. And I knew I couldn’t do it alone … I needed my subconscious to back me up.

So it was, and so it is. Thirty-eight days. That’s, like, nearly 1000 hours of Pepsi-free living, people.

The best part? I don’t even miss it.

The next-best part? Sic’s going next week, possibly for a slightly more felonious habit.

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