The not-so-live-blogging that causes me to lose like, every reader I have.
Tuesday
3pm:
This morning, Isobel and I watched President Obama’s inauguration. A comment that Maria left the other night left a taste of symbolism in my mouth. And so, I’m going to try (again) to quit smoking (as soon as this pack is gone).
I’ve got two and half smokes left. I’m a little scared. Knowing that Isobel will go to bed tonight and I’ll run out of them and should some time pass wherein I feel like I need to smoke, I won’t be able to go out and buy more. It’s not as if I’m going to leave her alone at night, to run to the corner store, after all.
9pm:
One left. What am I thinking? Trying to come up with things I can do with the cumulative 40 minutes a day that I won’t be smoking. Pilates DVD. Twice. Is all I can conceive. Maybe I’m panicking a little. Which might make me want to smoke. Motherfucker.
Wednesday
8:30am:
This is fine. Even while I’m drinking the first cup of coffee.
11:30am:
We’ve ventured outside for a trip to the library and maybe downtown. Suddenly, it seems as if everyone on the street smokes – funny, since before, I felt stared down for being the only smoker on the block.
A friend’s daughter has lost her shit about something incidental that’s been left at home. I need just like, three puffs. That’s it.
12pm:
I’ve dislodged some fiery cinnamon flavoured gum from my purse. Friend’s kiddo is still losing her shit and I’m singing, “I’m singing this song so I don’t smoke” quietly, to the tune of Garbage’s ‘When I Grow Up.’ This is going well </sarcasm>…we’re only at just over 12 hours, now.
1:15pm:
I need to go out. I need to be distracted. Just one drag, three little puffs. I should go get my labret changed – the jewel fell out at some point in the past two days – but going outside means seeing everyone smoking outside and OMG, I could die. Heh. Anyone who has called me strong? You’re welcome to take back those words right now.
4:16pm:
It just hit me that in less than 10 hours, I’ll have not smoked for an entire day. This is fucking huge.
6:55pm:
Just home from errands wherein I got into a yelling match with a supermarket employee, after Isobel had a tantrum for 55 minutes, complete with kicking, thrashing and screeching. I gave in and bummed a smoke off of a Starbucks employee. And that smoke did absolutely nothing for me. Fuck that shit.
9:45pm:
It just hit me that this is the lull in the evening when I’d smoke. And I’m not doing that. Why am I not doing that, again?
Thursday
4:27am:
I. still. cannot. sleep. You’d be pretty fucking talented if you could get me to believe it had anything to do with an issue not related to wanting a fucking cigarette.
10:17am:
I’m supposed to be writing a post for the baby blog. I’m thinking of stalking the streets until that sweet (cancerous) nicotine is tracked down. I might have to french kiss someone unattractive, to suck the smoke out of their lungs. Or I could just bum one. Or not.
12:31pm:
It’s not called hiding in your apartment if your kid asks to go home and stay ‘dere. I’m actually feeling okay. Hmm. What’s up with that?
4:07pm:
A friendly bus driver smoking on the edge of the sidewalk just gave me one of his smokes – he wouldn’t let me pay for it because he doesn’t understand that I’m supposed to be quitting and if I’m smoking, I should be paying for it. I have a drag (three puffs, to non-educated peeps) and leave it on a windowsill for one of the many street people to come and collect it. It, much like most of my sexual history, was meaningless and I walked away cold, having gaining nothing.
8:03pm:
I guess I did gain something. I tested myself and passed with a B. Which is good enough for today. I’m pretty sure that from now on, if I actually focus on the perfect GPA, I’ll get it without problem. I mean, even right now, picturing/fantasizing about those 1.333 smokes I’ve smoked in the past two days? I’m only mildly anxious. A lot hot and bothered, but only a little anxious.
8:17pm:
I’m just going to go ahead and post this. I wasn’t going to til after the weekend. After I knew I could do it. But you know, I don’t, for once, feel like a big fucking failure. So, might as well. *shrug* Should we take bets to see how long it takes me to get fat?
