It’s 1:17 a.m., and I’m sitting on the floor of my kitchen drinking Dr Pepper Blackberry out of the can like it’s medicine for a heartbreak I haven’t earned yet. I haven’t cried today, but I can feel it coming, crouched behind my molars. This beverage might be the gateway.
The label promises “Delightfully Dark. Subtly Sweet,” which, coincidentally, is also how I described myself during a short-lived phase in college when I tried to brand myself as “the mysterious girl who reads Bukowski and wears velvet chokers.” It didn’t stick. Much like this flavor profile.
I pop the tab. The hiss is aggressive, like the soda is already judging me for buying it. Like it’s muttering, “This is what we’re doing now?” before surrendering to carbonation.
Blackberry hits first. Not a real blackberry. Not a berry that ever knew soil or sunshine. This is the kind of blackberry that grew up in a basement listening to My Chemical Romance and wearing fingerless gloves. It’s dramatic. It’s synthetic. It’s here to make you question everything you once believed about fruit.


