Month: February 2015

February 1, 2015

I hate the word “February” because I always have to say in my head as I spell it out, “Feb-RU-ary.” I hate it!

Good first day of FebRUary, everyone. And happy Super Bowl Sunday. Go Seahawks. And happy start of Black History Month. And according to this yearly planner I purchased from Barnes & Noble yesterday, it’s also author Langston Hughes’ birthday. Such a busy day!

I am the opposite of busy today, however. It snowed roughly six inches over the course of yesterday and early this morning, and I have been enveloped in layers of blankets all morning, with fits of getting coffee thrown in.

Normally, I welcome the white stuff (snow, you perverts), but today, I mildly curse it. I made the decision two weeks ago to not be a lazy piece anymore and started eating better and exercising regularly. I rejoined a gym I had belonged to several years ago yesterday, as well. I know, right? What the hell, Hoffmeyer? To date, I have lost five point four pounds with an goal of getting rid of sixty total. Daunting? Yes, but I’ve done it before, so I’ll do it again. Anyway, I’m torked off the weather is unfavorable because I wanted to go to the gym and sweat my tits off. Oh well. I’ll take the opportunity to write and read and watch “Hoarders” on Netflix and not smoke.

Wha-wha-whaaaaaaat? While the gym thing is a no-go today, that also means I won’t be leaving the house for any reason…unless there’s a free all-you-can-eat Indian food buffet somewhere. And yes, that means I am out of cigarettes as of 8:21 a.m. CST (not that I haven’t been obsessing about that for the last two hours and thirty-nine minutes or anything) and will take this opportunity to just *gasp* not smoke for a g.d. change.

Oh, how I’ve been fighting with myself over this for a while now. I get so fed-up with my seeming lack of willpower/self-control when it comes to smoking, especially the last two weeks. How in the eff can I just make up my mind one day that, hey, I’m going to like, not eat shitty food and drink Coke all day and start walking and stick to it, but the thought of not smoking? Oh, Lord Jesus in Heaven and all the Choirs of Angels. It gives me a panic attack. How ridiculous. A g.d. panic attack over not being able to g.d. smoke for like, a g.d. day. G.d. it! I annoy myself so much sometimes.

Even dumber is that I had a craving at 10:07 a.m. CST (again, not that I’m keeping track or anything) and thought to myself, you can totally go steal one of Steve’s cigarettes and smoke it since you’re out and he’ll definitely understand the need to bum one because this is a dire situation and he can empathize with you for needing to smoke so badly. But you know what I did instead? Talked myself out of it. It was that simple. Plus, I was in like, a super comfortable and toasty spot in bed and I didn’t want to haul my big ass out to stand just outside the backdoor to the deck and huddle against the 25 MPH wind gusts and blowing snow, so I didn’t. Tiny victory! So tiny! Look at that ittle-wittle victory! I just wanna pinch its teeny tiny victorious cheeks!

Three hours and seventeen minutes now.

I’m kind of playing this up a bit. I’m not that chemically dependent on cigarettes that I’m seriously counting how many hours it has been.

Okay, that’s a lie. Later this afternoon, I totally will be all, “oh damn, it’s been like, six hours…” and then I’ll freak out and think about digging my car out and then I’ll call myself a stupid cunt and talk myself out of it and the cycle will repeat until tomorrow morning when I am on my way to work and I’ll drive by the gas station where I usually buy cigarettes and automatically turn the corner to get there and not think twice about going in and I don’t even have to ask for a pack anymore because I’m there so often that the cashiers see me come in and grab a pack from the shelf and that used to make me feel all special and shit and awww, they remembered, but now it’s really rather pathetic.

Plus, it’s insanely counterproductive to go to the gym, bust your hump for almost two hours, then walk out to your car and light up an effing cigarette. See? What the hell is wrong with me? I was on the elliptical machine yesterday and was wheezing. Not because I’m that terribly out of shape, but because my lungs were gasping in protest to the activity. Dumb. Stupid. Dumb and stupid.

And to make me feel even more like a loser, my brother and sister-in-law are in the process of quitting and I can’t let those jerks one-up me.

I know this is getting old, me crying wolf over quitting and then falling right back into it. Don’t think I don’t fret over that. The more times I exclaim “NO MORE!” and the more times I have to say “LOL JUST KIDDING!”, the less willing people will be to help me out or urge me. Yes, I know the majority of people understand how difficult it is, but some people don’t. Just quit. Don’t smoke. Yes, that’s all fine and good and a wonderful theory, but in practice, to a smoker–and a heavy one like I am–saying “don’t smoke” is like telling someone not to blink. Just quit. Don’t blink. You’ll be fine. Mind over matter! Blinking is for weenies! Nothing is a bigger turn-off than a blinker. Gross. Opening and closing their eyelids like that all the time? So disgusting.

I realize I’m trying to rationalize smoking, and boy howdy, I can do that all day long in a vain effort to justify my addiction.

Enough excuses.

And may god have mercy on my soul.

Three hours, forty-three minutes…

As always, thank you for reading.

E

 

 

 

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