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.
And then comes the cough syrup. Yes, cough syrup. Not in a subtle way, either. It kicks open the door in platform boots and tells you this is how healing tastes. Depending on your emotional baggage and your relationship to childhood cold medicine, this might feel like nostalgia. Or a warning. Personally, I used to fake sore throats for access to Dimetapp, so I didn’t hate it. But I also didn’t feel good about myself.
Dr. Pepper joins in like the elder Goth at the reunion. Brooding. Familiar. A little too eager to prove it’s still cool. Together, they form a union that feels both overthought and underfunded.
I sip again, hoping for revelation. Nothing. No divine insight. No electric jolt of berry joy. Just the slow realization that this soda tastes like the soundtrack to a moody indie film where nothing actually happens, but people keep staring out windows.
I am not transported to a wild berry grove. I do not feel kissed by morning dew. I am back in my kitchen, kneecaps going numb against fake tile, wondering if this drink is what love tastes like when it stops calling back.
Around sip four, I text my ex, “Do you remember that gas station outside Gainesville?” I stare at it for five full minutes, then delete it and open Duolingo instead. I guess I’m learning French now. Thanks, Dr. Pepper.
It’s somehow warmer now. Not in temperature. In shame.
The can insists it’s a limited edition, which feels like both a promise and a threat. It tastes like something temporary. Like a fling with a traveling magician. Exciting at first, then deeply confusing, and finally, regret with a fruit undertone.
The flavor hits in waves. First, berry-adjacent static. Then classic Dr. Pepper panic. Then a strange metallic aftershock, like your tongue borrowed a coin from 1997 and forgot to give it back. By sip six, I feel like I’m drinking the ghost of a smoothie that never got into college.
This soda is the beverage equivalent of watching a high school slideshow set to Evanescence. It’s wearing too much eyeliner. It quotes Sylvia Plath in its Instagram bio. It once tried to start a poetry zine called Fizz. It is not okay, but it wants you to think it is.
Would I drink it again?
Yes. Because I am weak.
Because I believe in second chances.
Because I once got back together with someone who made me watch Boondock Saints four times. I clearly have no boundaries.
Dr. Pepper Blackberry doesn’t quench thirst. It stirs up longing. Longing for summer nights, open windows, gas station candy, and a first kiss that tasted like grape Skittles. Longing for anything that feels sweet and true and just a little bit dangerous.
Drink it if you want to spiral, but in a fizzy way. Drink it if you need something to hold while the world outside sleeps and your neighbors watch Judge Judy reruns with the volume maxed. Drink it if you want to feel like a Victorian ghost who got reincarnated as a limited-edition beverage.
Dr. Pepper Blackberry tastes like a fruit that tried to seduce you, forgot its lines, and bailed halfway through the second act. You’re left with nothing but feelings and a faint, lingering reminder of cherry Robitussin.
