My belly hurts. Oh, alright, it doesn't really hurt. But it is acidically disturbed. And my legs are aching a bit. And I'm a bit sweaty. And I really, really want a ciggy. I feel that, if I had one, although I would feel nauseous for a while, my legs would stop aching, I'd stop feeling a little bit sweaty, and my belly would return to normal functioning.
Oh, quitting is always fun. No wonder I always struggle to start, knowing that for the first few months, I'll have days of feeling like this, and no wonder I struggle to maintain a quit, when I have days feeling like this.
Yet, one thing I have to remember - for one month, four days, 17 hours, 27 minutes and 1 second, I haven't had a migraine. I've had mild twinges, as if I might be about to get one, but not a full on, chronic, head thumper. I might yet get one. I inevitably will at some point. Stopping smoking is not a panacea for my migraines. But it does the reduce their number and intensity. So what's a little indigestion and achy legs in comparison? Well - I'd rather have no symptoms at all, but as it goes, I think I'd rather forgo the headaches.
My concentration is still lacking, even after nearly five weeks. My brain remains a tad fogged. I tend to start one thing, then get restless and start another. Or I start something, get distracted, and forget entirely what I was doing.
Hey ho, and away we go. I've got another novel to write!
One month, four days, 17 hours, 32 minutes and 24 seconds. 1041 cigarettes not smoked, saving £286.53. Life saved: 3 days, 14 hours, 45 minutes.
Tuesday, 24 July 2007
Monday, 23 July 2007
Hullabaloo!
One month, three days, 10 hours, 36 minutes and 22 seconds. 1003 cigarettes not smoked, saving £275.89. Life saved: 3 days, 11 hours, 35 minutes.
Shame I didn't catch it just at the thousand mark, but hey! That's fifty packs not smoked.
Shame I didn't catch it just at the thousand mark, but hey! That's fifty packs not smoked.
Sunday, 22 July 2007
Time Flies By When I'm the Driver of a Train
At least, it does if we imagine that the "train" to which I refer is actually smoking.
I was just contemplating various time-related stuff - things that had to be done by, or had to or will happen by a certain date - and realised that I am - as is the rest of the Western world, for that matter - still only in July. And only just the last week of July.
It is a bonus that time seems to have slowed now that I have quit smoking; time does, after all, fly away faster as I get older. At the same time, however, I wish time was going just a little bit faster. Not by much, perhaps just a few ticks every hour.
It is also a bonus that today, I have no wish to murder anybody, and smokers in the street shall remain unmugged. Nonetheless, the absence of the cigarette - from my hand, from my life - nags. Not smoking is a vacuum into which something wants to rush - and that something is, of course, nicotine. It wants to rush back in, a nicotine rush, to all those nicotine receptors I spent 20 years developing (it should be nearly thirty, really, but I've had a lot of quits)...
It does get easier, as they say, and as I anyway know. I also know I'm one fag away from a pack of day, and I don't want just one, I want them all. Yet sometimes, the idea of again having them all seems so sweet that I don't care about my heart and lungs, I don't care that, when I am smoking, I spend a great deal of the time worrying that I'm about to suffer a coronary or develop a cancer.
All I want is blue smoke trailing from my mouth and the junkie pleasure of having fulfilled my need.
However, at this moment:
One month, two days, 16 hours, 0 minutes and 22 seconds. 980 cigarettes not smoked, saving £269.50. Life saved: 3 days, 9 hours, 40 minutes.
Ooh, look! Some time tomorrow, I'll have not smoked a thousand. Now there's a milestone about which to hullabaloo!
I was just contemplating various time-related stuff - things that had to be done by, or had to or will happen by a certain date - and realised that I am - as is the rest of the Western world, for that matter - still only in July. And only just the last week of July.
It is a bonus that time seems to have slowed now that I have quit smoking; time does, after all, fly away faster as I get older. At the same time, however, I wish time was going just a little bit faster. Not by much, perhaps just a few ticks every hour.
It is also a bonus that today, I have no wish to murder anybody, and smokers in the street shall remain unmugged. Nonetheless, the absence of the cigarette - from my hand, from my life - nags. Not smoking is a vacuum into which something wants to rush - and that something is, of course, nicotine. It wants to rush back in, a nicotine rush, to all those nicotine receptors I spent 20 years developing (it should be nearly thirty, really, but I've had a lot of quits)...
It does get easier, as they say, and as I anyway know. I also know I'm one fag away from a pack of day, and I don't want just one, I want them all. Yet sometimes, the idea of again having them all seems so sweet that I don't care about my heart and lungs, I don't care that, when I am smoking, I spend a great deal of the time worrying that I'm about to suffer a coronary or develop a cancer.
All I want is blue smoke trailing from my mouth and the junkie pleasure of having fulfilled my need.
However, at this moment:
One month, two days, 16 hours, 0 minutes and 22 seconds. 980 cigarettes not smoked, saving £269.50. Life saved: 3 days, 9 hours, 40 minutes.
Ooh, look! Some time tomorrow, I'll have not smoked a thousand. Now there's a milestone about which to hullabaloo!
Friday, 20 July 2007
FMD
So, the first month has passed on by. It hasn't been easy, and still isn't, and will remain in that mode for some time. Nothing would make me happier than having a smoke (okay, sex and winning a million might make me temporarily happier).
Still:
One month, 9 hours, 34 minutes and 10 seconds. 911 cigarettes not smoked, saving £250.79. Life saved: 3 days, 3 hours, 55 minutes.
Still:
One month, 9 hours, 34 minutes and 10 seconds. 911 cigarettes not smoked, saving £250.79. Life saved: 3 days, 3 hours, 55 minutes.
Thursday, 19 July 2007
Displacement Activities 5
Wanting a cigarette quite badly at the moment, so back to YouTube, and, hurrah! Now, I'm feeling all jingly-jangly, so:
The Cocteau Twins: Live "Pearly Dewdrop's Drops", and Vid for "Carolyn's Fingers"
The Sundays: Vid for "Goodbye", and Vid for "Here's Where the Story Ends"
I'm also feeling a little bit heavy, so:
A Perfect Circle: Vid for "Judith". The video is so lo-fi you can watch it full screen! BTW, at about 1:50 is one of the coolest moments in rock!
Mudvayne: Vid for "Dig" One of my favourite riffs. Bombs away!
Oh well... suppose I'd better find something sensible to do with the rest of the evening...
The Cocteau Twins: Live "Pearly Dewdrop's Drops", and Vid for "Carolyn's Fingers"
The Sundays: Vid for "Goodbye", and Vid for "Here's Where the Story Ends"
I'm also feeling a little bit heavy, so:
A Perfect Circle: Vid for "Judith". The video is so lo-fi you can watch it full screen! BTW, at about 1:50 is one of the coolest moments in rock!
Mudvayne: Vid for "Dig" One of my favourite riffs. Bombs away!
Oh well... suppose I'd better find something sensible to do with the rest of the evening...
Wednesday, 18 July 2007
Dolores is MIA!
I hope that doesn't mean she's relaxing in her summer garden with a ciggie in hand, but that she's in lurve or something...
Monday, 16 July 2007
Imagining Myself in a Car
Even since I drove into work this morning, I have this repeated image of myself in a car, driving to Devon. In this vision, I have a cigarette in my hand.
This began because I noticed that the gaiter on my gear lever no longer has a light covering of ash. And weirdly, I missed it. And suddenly, there was an image of the cigarette in my left hand that rested atop the gear lever as I sailed down the miles of the A303 towards Devon. Radio 4 on the radio. Interestingly, in this image, I don't appear to smoke the cigarette. It is just there, my driving companion.
I think this is an example of romancing the cigarette, making it an important and essential part of some day to day activity, seeing it as intrinsic and vital to the performance of an activity.
It would be possible, you might suppose, to ignore such images, to put them to one side and concentrate on the important things of the day. But no... the image leaks back in, just quick flashes.
Me, in a car. With a fag in my hand.
This began because I noticed that the gaiter on my gear lever no longer has a light covering of ash. And weirdly, I missed it. And suddenly, there was an image of the cigarette in my left hand that rested atop the gear lever as I sailed down the miles of the A303 towards Devon. Radio 4 on the radio. Interestingly, in this image, I don't appear to smoke the cigarette. It is just there, my driving companion.
I think this is an example of romancing the cigarette, making it an important and essential part of some day to day activity, seeing it as intrinsic and vital to the performance of an activity.
It would be possible, you might suppose, to ignore such images, to put them to one side and concentrate on the important things of the day. But no... the image leaks back in, just quick flashes.
Me, in a car. With a fag in my hand.
Saturday, 14 July 2007
Something to Do With Your Fingers (1)
When quitting smoking, there's always the consideration of what you are going to do with your hands - and the terminal digits of said appendages - when you no longer have a cigarette to play with. If you are in the unfortunate position of having nothing to play with in a cigarette's stead, yet have an interest in things scientific, I advise wandering over to Galaxy Zoo.
You can help classify galaxies into left- and right-handed spirals, ellipticals and mergers. It's fun, and you get to see photos of galaxies that possibly nobody has ever seen before (why that should be is explained at the web site).
You can help classify galaxies into left- and right-handed spirals, ellipticals and mergers. It's fun, and you get to see photos of galaxies that possibly nobody has ever seen before (why that should be is explained at the web site).
Two Hundred Quid Not Reduced to Ash
Here's a milestone that must have happened during the night. Two hundred pounds saved, already. Lookie here:
Three weeks, three days, 14 hours, 57 minutes and 55 seconds. 738 cigarettes not smoked, saving £203.14.
That's a nice milestone and gives me an idea of what I'll save over the year (about £2500, whoo!), and why I won't need to feel bad if I decide to buy even more books, CDs or DVDs in any given month. Although in the first few months of quitting I do tend to spend a lot of what I save just to make myself feel better (I've easily spent somewhere around 80 quid on the aforementioned items this month).
I had two hours of wading through sludge on the phone last night as I tried to make sense of somebody else's ill-starred world. This would normally have been the cue to smoke a handful of cigarettes. If I hadn't been so tired, and also not wanted to visit the nearest 24 hour garage just as the clubs were kicking out, I might have gone and bought myself ten sweet Silkies. But I didn't. And today, I've been burning the demon out with lots of joss sticks and ylang ylang.
One good thing about my odd life is that despite its oddness, I always find myself having a lot to do, so boredom is never an excuse to start smoking. Except for the special boredom I have to be wary of - becoming bored with fighting the cravings. Quits have collapsed over that. So, I carry on carrying on, remembering:
I don't want one, I want them all.
Three weeks, three days, 14 hours, 57 minutes and 55 seconds. 738 cigarettes not smoked, saving £203.14.
That's a nice milestone and gives me an idea of what I'll save over the year (about £2500, whoo!), and why I won't need to feel bad if I decide to buy even more books, CDs or DVDs in any given month. Although in the first few months of quitting I do tend to spend a lot of what I save just to make myself feel better (I've easily spent somewhere around 80 quid on the aforementioned items this month).
I had two hours of wading through sludge on the phone last night as I tried to make sense of somebody else's ill-starred world. This would normally have been the cue to smoke a handful of cigarettes. If I hadn't been so tired, and also not wanted to visit the nearest 24 hour garage just as the clubs were kicking out, I might have gone and bought myself ten sweet Silkies. But I didn't. And today, I've been burning the demon out with lots of joss sticks and ylang ylang.
One good thing about my odd life is that despite its oddness, I always find myself having a lot to do, so boredom is never an excuse to start smoking. Except for the special boredom I have to be wary of - becoming bored with fighting the cravings. Quits have collapsed over that. So, I carry on carrying on, remembering:
I don't want one, I want them all.
Wednesday, 11 July 2007
Three Weeks Done
Well, it's been three weeks. There are those who aver that it will get easier from here on in, but I've slipped enough times to know that isn't true. In fact, it will never be true. As they say, I'm just one fag away from one pack a day. Another favourite motto along the same lines - "I don't want one, I want them all."
Anyway, one day at a time. And on this day, three weeks has been and gone:
Three weeks, 19 hours, 29 minutes and 55 seconds. 654 cigarettes not smoked, saving £179.95. Life saved: 2 days, 6 hours, 30 minutes.
Anyway, one day at a time. And on this day, three weeks has been and gone:
Three weeks, 19 hours, 29 minutes and 55 seconds. 654 cigarettes not smoked, saving £179.95. Life saved: 2 days, 6 hours, 30 minutes.
Monday, 9 July 2007
Julia Roberts and the Fag in Her Gob
So, I'm watching My Best Friend's Wedding tonight (I'm a sucker for romantic movies - so shoot me...)
Julia Roberts is, at certain times, quite beautiful. I can smell the Marlboro on her. You know, the Marlboro she shakes out of a packet at certain times of stress as if the rest of the time she can just ignore it.
When she smokes a cigarette, however, as if by some olfactory magic my living room fills with sweet cigarette smoke. Her body becomes wreathed in it. The smoke is sweet, and my desire to smoke strong. When Dermot Mulroney takes her in his arms, just after she has been sitting outside his bedroom door, smoking, I imagine for a moment how she would smell, at that moment, and for that moment I imagine the smoke now gone that lingers about her, how her long, red, curly hair, would smell of cigarette smoke.
And some people think this addiction is easy to beat.
Two weeks, five days, 19 hours, 37 minutes and 49 seconds. 594 cigarettes not smoked, saving £163.49. Life saved: 2 days, 1 hour, 30 minutes.
Julia Roberts is, at certain times, quite beautiful. I can smell the Marlboro on her. You know, the Marlboro she shakes out of a packet at certain times of stress as if the rest of the time she can just ignore it.
When she smokes a cigarette, however, as if by some olfactory magic my living room fills with sweet cigarette smoke. Her body becomes wreathed in it. The smoke is sweet, and my desire to smoke strong. When Dermot Mulroney takes her in his arms, just after she has been sitting outside his bedroom door, smoking, I imagine for a moment how she would smell, at that moment, and for that moment I imagine the smoke now gone that lingers about her, how her long, red, curly hair, would smell of cigarette smoke.
And some people think this addiction is easy to beat.
Two weeks, five days, 19 hours, 37 minutes and 49 seconds. 594 cigarettes not smoked, saving £163.49. Life saved: 2 days, 1 hour, 30 minutes.
Does it work (1) : Chewing Gum
I just mean plain old gum here, not Nicotine gum which for some reason I am afraid of.
Old people: remember when gum came in green, white or yellow and that was it? (Spearmint & Juicy Fruit but what the hell was the other one?)
Well I've got news for you. The gum market has exploded. There's maybe a square meter of it in any corner shop. They still tend to the green/blue end of the spectrum, but there's pink, red, black, yellow, orange. You can get mad flavours like cinnamon or cherry menthol, They are beautiful, shiny and neat as a packet of fags and a whole lot cheaper per hit. Some of the gums even have Benefits: they clear your airways, whiten your teeth, freshen your breath.
For a really extreme gum experience there is Trident Splash: crunchy pillows of gum with a runny bit in the middle, in combos like Strawberry and Lime.
So for an orally fixated quitter like me, gum seems to have a lot going for it.
And it has helped. But there are problems.
First thing: proper smokers tend to have an addictive style personality, I would say. So at first you can just pop in a single gumlet and chew idly for 15 minutes, dispose of it thoughtfully, wait an hour and repeat.
But soon that's not enough, you've ramped it up to 2 gumlets at once. Soon as the flavour starts to leave, need to shove another one in there. Before you know it you are chawing on an entire packet at once. And that's a lot of artificial sweetener and flavours for the system to take.
I woke up this morning with a gum hangover, a sort of nauseous memory of too much sweetness. (Not unlike the sensation of having just thrown up after a bottle of Southern Comfort, come to think of it).
The thought of even looking at my remaining gum stores makes me shudder. No gum for me this morning.
Which is a relief when we stop to review the other problem with hard-core gum-chewing. Look away, sensitive types. Whisper it: constant gum-chewing makes you fart. Not great big satisfying farts either, mean little farts.
All in all, though, I give gum-chewing 7/10.
Old people: remember when gum came in green, white or yellow and that was it? (Spearmint & Juicy Fruit but what the hell was the other one?)
Well I've got news for you. The gum market has exploded. There's maybe a square meter of it in any corner shop. They still tend to the green/blue end of the spectrum, but there's pink, red, black, yellow, orange. You can get mad flavours like cinnamon or cherry menthol, They are beautiful, shiny and neat as a packet of fags and a whole lot cheaper per hit. Some of the gums even have Benefits: they clear your airways, whiten your teeth, freshen your breath.
For a really extreme gum experience there is Trident Splash: crunchy pillows of gum with a runny bit in the middle, in combos like Strawberry and Lime.
So for an orally fixated quitter like me, gum seems to have a lot going for it.
And it has helped. But there are problems.
First thing: proper smokers tend to have an addictive style personality, I would say. So at first you can just pop in a single gumlet and chew idly for 15 minutes, dispose of it thoughtfully, wait an hour and repeat.
But soon that's not enough, you've ramped it up to 2 gumlets at once. Soon as the flavour starts to leave, need to shove another one in there. Before you know it you are chawing on an entire packet at once. And that's a lot of artificial sweetener and flavours for the system to take.
I woke up this morning with a gum hangover, a sort of nauseous memory of too much sweetness. (Not unlike the sensation of having just thrown up after a bottle of Southern Comfort, come to think of it).
The thought of even looking at my remaining gum stores makes me shudder. No gum for me this morning.
Which is a relief when we stop to review the other problem with hard-core gum-chewing. Look away, sensitive types. Whisper it: constant gum-chewing makes you fart. Not great big satisfying farts either, mean little farts.
All in all, though, I give gum-chewing 7/10.
Sunday, 8 July 2007
Now what?
What's the best approach for when you've fallen off the wagon? I think I shoould have figured that out before I bought the Silk Cut.
The most tempting thing is to shout "Hooray, this quit has failed!" and just throw yourself back into lovely lovely smoking with a vengeance. Cos what's the alternative? Reset your meter back to 0, hate yourself, despair and face the grim first days of quitting all over again. That's not going to fly.
I'm sitting here and a Brilliant Idea is forming. (Groans heard from those of you that know me and my Brilliant Ideas)
No, hang on, its two Brilliant Ideas. Its twins showing on the scan.
First Brilliant Idea. For every fag, I have to first sincerely repent. Think about the consequences of that, Young Lady. Perhaps I should repent right here in the blog. That will make riveting reading (Wild laughter) Then I have to commit an act of self-love so that I can know that I have proper forgiven myself. No I don't mean a w*nk. Necessarily. Could be anything nice. Could make myself a card. Or buy a song off itunes. Or force someone to say I'm great.
Second Brilliant Idea.
Since I was 19 every little thing I've done, I've done with a fag in my hand. Except for teaching or sleeping. I was going to say and having sex, but ummm come to think of it. So how about the worlds largest tick chart containing every conceivable situation, mood, scenario and location? When I get through that thing without a ciggie I get a tick. Then when I get, say, 100 ticks, you guys (the readers) can take it in turns to treat me to something nice. Possible flaw with this plan! Nobody will want to treat me to something nice! Prove me wrong and mail me your offers.
As to the meter: well its my servant not my master. I'm just going to expunge the last couple of days from the record and say:
Six days, 21 hours, 50 minutes and 56 seconds. 276 cigarettes not smoked, saving £62.88. Life saved: 23 hours, 0 minutes.
The most tempting thing is to shout "Hooray, this quit has failed!" and just throw yourself back into lovely lovely smoking with a vengeance. Cos what's the alternative? Reset your meter back to 0, hate yourself, despair and face the grim first days of quitting all over again. That's not going to fly.
I'm sitting here and a Brilliant Idea is forming. (Groans heard from those of you that know me and my Brilliant Ideas)
No, hang on, its two Brilliant Ideas. Its twins showing on the scan.
First Brilliant Idea. For every fag, I have to first sincerely repent. Think about the consequences of that, Young Lady. Perhaps I should repent right here in the blog. That will make riveting reading (Wild laughter) Then I have to commit an act of self-love so that I can know that I have proper forgiven myself. No I don't mean a w*nk. Necessarily. Could be anything nice. Could make myself a card. Or buy a song off itunes. Or force someone to say I'm great.
Second Brilliant Idea.
Since I was 19 every little thing I've done, I've done with a fag in my hand. Except for teaching or sleeping. I was going to say and having sex, but ummm come to think of it. So how about the worlds largest tick chart containing every conceivable situation, mood, scenario and location? When I get through that thing without a ciggie I get a tick. Then when I get, say, 100 ticks, you guys (the readers) can take it in turns to treat me to something nice. Possible flaw with this plan! Nobody will want to treat me to something nice! Prove me wrong and mail me your offers.
As to the meter: well its my servant not my master. I'm just going to expunge the last couple of days from the record and say:
Six days, 21 hours, 50 minutes and 56 seconds. 276 cigarettes not smoked, saving £62.88. Life saved: 23 hours, 0 minutes.
Unlike me
Two weeks, three days, 21 hours, 56 minutes and 32 seconds. 537 cigarettes not smoked, saving £147.79. Life saved: 1 day, 20 hours, 45 minutes.
He Never Said Sorry But ..
What happened to me on Tuesday do you think? Do you think a man drove a long way and bought me dinner and got me drunk and took advantage? Jeez you're psychic.
There's a lot more to this story than I can be bothered to explain. Read my email and figure it out Identity of less-than-ideal lover removed because Mystery Dude says to.
Dear Mr B*****
I hope the use of your surname does not seem too familiar.
I just wanted to write and thank you for drawing my attention to an interesting social phenomenon. I had thought the The Aging Lothario was, like polio, a thing of the past. I was fascinated to find that in fact he lives on in B*********, Herefordshire, unchanged since the early seventies.
I am annoyed with myself for not spotting the signs, though in retrospect there were many. All I can say in my own defence is that I did not think to look for the signs, just as we would be slow to notice the symptoms of polio in this day and age.
I did really enjoy the sex we had together, though I misunderstood what it represented. I (stupidly) thought it was an expression of our friendship and attraction, whereas for you it was the finale of a calculating and exploitative multimedia seduction campaign. I am so glad I found out what kind of man you are.
I assume you have cancelled your bank cards, amazed that you would rather do this than run the risk of contacting one of your conquests again. You may wonder how they came into my possession - I found them the next morning on the kitchen floor, where they must have fallen while I was sucking your dick.
You obviously have no respect for a woman who is willing to have sex with you, perhaps that is why so few of us are. I expect it is too late for you to change, but just feel I should repeat: people no longer think that way.
Of course I intend to publish what I have found out. If you would prefer me to omit the details of your name and location, you'd better ask me, real nicely.
Yours sincerely,
There's a lot more to this story than I can be bothered to explain. Read my email and figure it out Identity of less-than-ideal lover removed because Mystery Dude says to.
Dear Mr B*****
I hope the use of your surname does not seem too familiar.
I just wanted to write and thank you for drawing my attention to an interesting social phenomenon. I had thought the The Aging Lothario was, like polio, a thing of the past. I was fascinated to find that in fact he lives on in B*********, Herefordshire, unchanged since the early seventies.
I am annoyed with myself for not spotting the signs, though in retrospect there were many. All I can say in my own defence is that I did not think to look for the signs, just as we would be slow to notice the symptoms of polio in this day and age.
I did really enjoy the sex we had together, though I misunderstood what it represented. I (stupidly) thought it was an expression of our friendship and attraction, whereas for you it was the finale of a calculating and exploitative multimedia seduction campaign. I am so glad I found out what kind of man you are.
I assume you have cancelled your bank cards, amazed that you would rather do this than run the risk of contacting one of your conquests again. You may wonder how they came into my possession - I found them the next morning on the kitchen floor, where they must have fallen while I was sucking your dick.
You obviously have no respect for a woman who is willing to have sex with you, perhaps that is why so few of us are. I expect it is too late for you to change, but just feel I should repeat: people no longer think that way.
Of course I intend to publish what I have found out. If you would prefer me to omit the details of your name and location, you'd better ask me, real nicely.
Yours sincerely,
Aha, now I can
The most crazy beautiful thing happened to me yesterday morning. I went to see this customer who had somehow invited a whole lot of spyware on to his computer. So I temporarily disabled restore, booted into safe mode and started to run some scans. I saw that it was going to take ages and its kind of boring watching a progress bar so I asked him to please entertain me or I would have to go out and get some fags.
"Do you play chess?" he asked
"Kinda" I replied.
So he got out his chess set, but it was a very expensive chess set in which all the bits were very fancy models. Like there was an armadillo thing and that was a pawn. There was a dragon thing and that was one of the knights. The queen resembled Barbara Streisand. It was very hard to tell which piece belonged to which side.
So we played a game of chess. It was hard though because he's had a stroke and can't remember what anything is called. And neither of us could reliably say what anything was. So it was like
"Can you do that? Isn't that a bishop"
(Pause while I put on glasses so I can read underside of chess piece. Leg missing from specs so specs fall off)
I think its a bishop
(Pause while Kev attempts to remember the word for thing that goes diagonally)
Its a... its a ...
Bishop?
Yeah
It was brilliant, especially since I won. I only won because he accidentally sacrificed his queen early on, believing it to be a pawn. I could see that with a proper set and without the stroke he's have whopped my arse.
It was brilliant because it made his day and you know what, it made mine too
"Do you play chess?" he asked
"Kinda" I replied.
So he got out his chess set, but it was a very expensive chess set in which all the bits were very fancy models. Like there was an armadillo thing and that was a pawn. There was a dragon thing and that was one of the knights. The queen resembled Barbara Streisand. It was very hard to tell which piece belonged to which side.
So we played a game of chess. It was hard though because he's had a stroke and can't remember what anything is called. And neither of us could reliably say what anything was. So it was like
"Can you do that? Isn't that a bishop"
(Pause while I put on glasses so I can read underside of chess piece. Leg missing from specs so specs fall off)
I think its a bishop
(Pause while Kev attempts to remember the word for thing that goes diagonally)
Its a... its a ...
Bishop?
Yeah
It was brilliant, especially since I won. I only won because he accidentally sacrificed his queen early on, believing it to be a pawn. I could see that with a proper set and without the stroke he's have whopped my arse.
It was brilliant because it made his day and you know what, it made mine too
sdfgsfdgsfgsfgsfdgsdfgsdfgsdfgsfg
It won't let me type in the the title place/ And I have so much to say.. but can't do it without a title
Friday, 6 July 2007
But a Milestone!
Having had a moan in the previous entry, I will note:
Two weeks, two days, 19 hours, 41 minutes and 2 seconds. 504 cigarettes not smoked, saving £138.77. Life saved: 1 day, 18 hours, 0 minutes.
Over 500 fags not smoked. That's 25 empty packets not in the bin. Nearly 140 quid still in my bank account. So that's something.
I'm not even that keen on chocolate, either.
Two weeks, two days, 19 hours, 41 minutes and 2 seconds. 504 cigarettes not smoked, saving £138.77. Life saved: 1 day, 18 hours, 0 minutes.
Over 500 fags not smoked. That's 25 empty packets not in the bin. Nearly 140 quid still in my bank account. So that's something.
I'm not even that keen on chocolate, either.
Give Me a Fag, or I'll Kill You
So, this evening I'm having quite a hard time. Endlessly replaying Stevie Nicks in that moment of naturalness I discovered on YouTube - which is nice. I still want a fag, and I'm aware that she was probably on 30 Cools a day then, or something. But she looks happy, and I join her for a moment in her happiness and for that moment a twitching strung out moment goes by in peace. But it comes back.
Stevie also strongly reminds me of somebody who I wish I could contact - just to find out how she's getting on, you know? - but for various reasons, can't.
I've got the tight chest thing again too, the feeling that I'm just about to stop breathing, the feeling I only get when I stop and not when I am smoking, which is weird.
Hang on, I'm going to light a couple of joss sticks.
And slap some ylang ylang and patcholi on my wrist... and sniff. Ahhhhh. Lovely.
I am such a hippie.
Perhaps the tightness in my chest is just stress. I don't get stressed much. Perhaps smoking masked it.
It's so difficult to describe.
It's like a tightness
Perhaps it's just depression? There is a theory that people who find giving up smoking hard (people like me, who have given up dozens of times, and sometimes for years before backsliding) actually use smoking to mask symptoms of depression.
It doesn't seem to happen when I smoke, so it must have something to do with not smoking. So, of course, part of me thinks, yeh, go on, have a fag, feel better. But then if I am masking stress or depression, better to let it out and live with it than keep hiding it?
But then, perhaps, it's just some psychosomatic shit that's trying to make me smoke. Because it does make me want to smoke, so in that sense, it's quite successful. I will continue to fight it though.
Shame I don't drink, really.
Stevie also strongly reminds me of somebody who I wish I could contact - just to find out how she's getting on, you know? - but for various reasons, can't.
I've got the tight chest thing again too, the feeling that I'm just about to stop breathing, the feeling I only get when I stop and not when I am smoking, which is weird.
Hang on, I'm going to light a couple of joss sticks.
And slap some ylang ylang and patcholi on my wrist... and sniff. Ahhhhh. Lovely.
I am such a hippie.
Perhaps the tightness in my chest is just stress. I don't get stressed much. Perhaps smoking masked it.
It's so difficult to describe.
It's like a tightness
Perhaps it's just depression? There is a theory that people who find giving up smoking hard (people like me, who have given up dozens of times, and sometimes for years before backsliding) actually use smoking to mask symptoms of depression.
It doesn't seem to happen when I smoke, so it must have something to do with not smoking. So, of course, part of me thinks, yeh, go on, have a fag, feel better. But then if I am masking stress or depression, better to let it out and live with it than keep hiding it?
But then, perhaps, it's just some psychosomatic shit that's trying to make me smoke. Because it does make me want to smoke, so in that sense, it's quite successful. I will continue to fight it though.
Shame I don't drink, really.
French Films
Oh Lord.
French films of the early eighties are high-class smoking p*rn. I just watched Diva, and of course the really cool guy successfully builds an enormous jigsaw that consists mainly of different shades of blue while smoking many Gauloises.
Blue smoke wreathes around the apartment that only contains a bath, a jigsaw, a phone and a kitchen. A girl roller-skates around it. Cool bloke sits on the floor smoking a Gauloise. In this bubble of film-time, you know that smoking isn't going to cause any harm, no cancer, no heart attacks, no diseases. Just a bloke and his fags, a girl on rollerskates, an enormous jigsaw.
It was so cool, that, of course, I wanted a fag for most of the film. Luckily, the subtitles kept deflecting the worst of craves. But they were there, in the background. The craves, not the subtitles.
Still, I keep on keeping on.
Two weeks, one day, 21 hours, 4 minutes and 16 seconds. 476 cigarettes not smoked, saving £130.99. Life saved: 1 day, 15 hours, 40 minutes.
French films of the early eighties are high-class smoking p*rn. I just watched Diva, and of course the really cool guy successfully builds an enormous jigsaw that consists mainly of different shades of blue while smoking many Gauloises.
Blue smoke wreathes around the apartment that only contains a bath, a jigsaw, a phone and a kitchen. A girl roller-skates around it. Cool bloke sits on the floor smoking a Gauloise. In this bubble of film-time, you know that smoking isn't going to cause any harm, no cancer, no heart attacks, no diseases. Just a bloke and his fags, a girl on rollerskates, an enormous jigsaw.
It was so cool, that, of course, I wanted a fag for most of the film. Luckily, the subtitles kept deflecting the worst of craves. But they were there, in the background. The craves, not the subtitles.
Still, I keep on keeping on.
Two weeks, one day, 21 hours, 4 minutes and 16 seconds. 476 cigarettes not smoked, saving £130.99. Life saved: 1 day, 15 hours, 40 minutes.
Thursday, 5 July 2007
Displacement Activities 4
Arggh! What a discovery! Haven't seen this for about 25 years! (And for those of you who thought we were precious for composing sonnets!)
Unfortunately only the last 8 minutes, but hey:
Le Sacre Du Printemps by Pina Bausch Wuppertal Dance Theater
There is a Dance of the Young Girls from Le Sacre by a different choreographer here.
And something slightly more Dudish, but still perhaps surprising - I've been trying to find a complete one of these all night!
Unfortunately only the last 8 minutes, but hey:
Le Sacre Du Printemps by Pina Bausch Wuppertal Dance Theater
There is a Dance of the Young Girls from Le Sacre by a different choreographer here.
And something slightly more Dudish, but still perhaps surprising - I've been trying to find a complete one of these all night!
Wednesday, 4 July 2007
Question Time
Tonight, in the dog-end of day 5, we will be exploring the question: why am I such an utter twat?
Here I am, 44 long full years behind me, I've sat through the same damn lesson time and time again. I've taken notes and nodded sagely and put my hand up and answered the questions and told the lesson to other people and I still don't really learn it.
The lesson I can't learn is this: there IS a future and unless I take steps, I won't be in it.
I don't like the future and I never have. There are people that love me, I am lucky and I do include you Nix and Monkey and Jane and kids and Dude. There are things that are beautiful in my life and I will risk them all for a momentary thrill. My self-control is crap. I'm like a little kid or a border collie, see something distracting and I run across the road without looking, car crash, dead.
So how can a person of this type possibly quit smoking? How?
My best friend can tell me something important about where I'm going wrong and I just go "lah-lah-lah-yeah whatever". A complete stranger can dare me to drink a bottle of vodka and do a pole dance in the Griffin and I'm right there. I'm a twat and I get it all wrong.
This probably doesn't make any sense but what do you expect after
Four days, 22 hours, 52 minutes and 58 seconds. 198 cigarettes not smoked, saving £45.07. Life saved: 16 hours, 30 minutes.
Here I am, 44 long full years behind me, I've sat through the same damn lesson time and time again. I've taken notes and nodded sagely and put my hand up and answered the questions and told the lesson to other people and I still don't really learn it.
The lesson I can't learn is this: there IS a future and unless I take steps, I won't be in it.
I don't like the future and I never have. There are people that love me, I am lucky and I do include you Nix and Monkey and Jane and kids and Dude. There are things that are beautiful in my life and I will risk them all for a momentary thrill. My self-control is crap. I'm like a little kid or a border collie, see something distracting and I run across the road without looking, car crash, dead.
So how can a person of this type possibly quit smoking? How?
My best friend can tell me something important about where I'm going wrong and I just go "lah-lah-lah-yeah whatever". A complete stranger can dare me to drink a bottle of vodka and do a pole dance in the Griffin and I'm right there. I'm a twat and I get it all wrong.
This probably doesn't make any sense but what do you expect after
Four days, 22 hours, 52 minutes and 58 seconds. 198 cigarettes not smoked, saving £45.07. Life saved: 16 hours, 30 minutes.
Reacquainting Myself With Brenda
I've stood on Brenda and walked 50 paces three times today without significant effect - like fear of having a heart attack - so that's good.
I'm trying to replace the smoking addiction with an "I'm going to have a six-pack and lose a stone by Christmas" obsession. I know that, if I smoke, I won't manage either of those things, because when I smoke I'm too scared to exercise in case I die. So the only chance of any change in this fat nearly-fifty year old is if I stay off the weed. If I return to smoking then I am accepting that I want to be a fat, unfit, fifty-year old who smokes.
In fact, it's almost worth giving me the reward of smoking for Christmas if I can get a six pack and lose a stone by then. But that would be madness of course.
So fit and fit by Christmas. Can the Dude do it?
I'm trying to replace the smoking addiction with an "I'm going to have a six-pack and lose a stone by Christmas" obsession. I know that, if I smoke, I won't manage either of those things, because when I smoke I'm too scared to exercise in case I die. So the only chance of any change in this fat nearly-fifty year old is if I stay off the weed. If I return to smoking then I am accepting that I want to be a fat, unfit, fifty-year old who smokes.
In fact, it's almost worth giving me the reward of smoking for Christmas if I can get a six pack and lose a stone by then. But that would be madness of course.
So fit and fit by Christmas. Can the Dude do it?
Two Weeks Done!
It's one of the milestones!
Two weeks, 8 hours, 0 minutes and 56 seconds. 430 cigarettes not smoked, saving £118.25. 0 Shags. Life saved: 1 day, 11 hours, 50 minutes.
Two weeks, 8 hours, 0 minutes and 56 seconds. 430 cigarettes not smoked, saving £118.25. 0 Shags. Life saved: 1 day, 11 hours, 50 minutes.
Let's see if you're paying attention...
Four days, 11 hours, 22 minutes and 49 seconds. 178 cigarettes not smoked, saving £40.71. Life saved: 14 hours, 50 minutes. Shags enjoyed: 1.5
Tuesday, 3 July 2007
Displacement Activities 3
YouTube seems to be a fruitful way of keeping my mind off the ... the... you know...
So go look at my favourite mashup
or:
A lovely clean 1970s vid of Fleetwood Mac (Stevie Nicks!) doing Rhiannon
Oh, and look at this very lovely thing, Stevie Nicks just singing with a backing singer and a backing track while being made up backstage and looking relaxed. It's so sweet, so of the moment, and what a voice...
And ever since the 70s I've wondered what the improbable combination of Elkie Brooks and Robert Palmer sounded like, but I was too scared back then. I'm made of sterner stuff now, and this actually rocks, man.
So go look at my favourite mashup
or:
A lovely clean 1970s vid of Fleetwood Mac (Stevie Nicks!) doing Rhiannon
Oh, and look at this very lovely thing, Stevie Nicks just singing with a backing singer and a backing track while being made up backstage and looking relaxed. It's so sweet, so of the moment, and what a voice...
And ever since the 70s I've wondered what the improbable combination of Elkie Brooks and Robert Palmer sounded like, but I was too scared back then. I'm made of sterner stuff now, and this actually rocks, man.
Blegh!
Can't say I've stopped feeling blegh. But that might be something to do with the number of plain chocolate biscuits I've consumed since this morning's Ugh! post.
Plain chocolate biscuits are lovely in and of themselves, but are a poor substitute for a Silk Cut. But as I can't have a Silkie, guess the choccie bix will have to suffice.
Of course, I could eat plain chocolate biscuits even when I smoked. So what is the point of the biscuits? What need is satisfied by the biscuits? What need am I satisfying by eating biscuits?
Am I satisfying any need beyond the basic need to enjoy something sweet and fatty? Wouldn't I enjoy a plain chocolate biscuit anyway? So am I, in fact, rambling for nothing? To no point? Making a mountain out of a molehill? What does it mean? Anything? Nothing? In what way is the biscuit meaningful? Wouldn't I have eaten one anyway? Even when I was smoking, if I had a packet of biscuits, didn't I eat too many? So is the problem allowing myself to buy the biscuits? Because if I didn't buy them I wouldn't eat them?
How many questions can I ask myself in one blog entry? Can I ask any more? In what sense do I expect an answer? What would an answer consist of? Would I know if I had an answer? Is the chocolate biscuit an answer? Is blegh a word? Is blegh a biscuit? How many shortcake can a man wolf down? How short can a cake be? How short would a cake have to be before it became useless? Would that depend on how many short cakes there were?
Blegh?
Plain chocolate biscuits are lovely in and of themselves, but are a poor substitute for a Silk Cut. But as I can't have a Silkie, guess the choccie bix will have to suffice.
Of course, I could eat plain chocolate biscuits even when I smoked. So what is the point of the biscuits? What need is satisfied by the biscuits? What need am I satisfying by eating biscuits?
Am I satisfying any need beyond the basic need to enjoy something sweet and fatty? Wouldn't I enjoy a plain chocolate biscuit anyway? So am I, in fact, rambling for nothing? To no point? Making a mountain out of a molehill? What does it mean? Anything? Nothing? In what way is the biscuit meaningful? Wouldn't I have eaten one anyway? Even when I was smoking, if I had a packet of biscuits, didn't I eat too many? So is the problem allowing myself to buy the biscuits? Because if I didn't buy them I wouldn't eat them?
How many questions can I ask myself in one blog entry? Can I ask any more? In what sense do I expect an answer? What would an answer consist of? Would I know if I had an answer? Is the chocolate biscuit an answer? Is blegh a word? Is blegh a biscuit? How many shortcake can a man wolf down? How short can a cake be? How short would a cake have to be before it became useless? Would that depend on how many short cakes there were?
Blegh?
I want a fag
Tired of this quitting now. You're just high-fiving yourself for getting over a crave when another one comes along. That's just going to happen over and over and over every day for ever.
I split up this fella who I reckoned was the love of my life a few months ago and I missed him a lot at first. But the thought of never seeing him again didn't make me cry like the thought of never having another fag does.
That's proper addiction isn't it?
(sarcastically)
Three days, 11 hours, 25 minutes and 5 seconds. 139 cigarettes not smoked, saving £31.63. Life saved: 11 hours, 35 minutes.
I split up this fella who I reckoned was the love of my life a few months ago and I missed him a lot at first. But the thought of never seeing him again didn't make me cry like the thought of never having another fag does.
That's proper addiction isn't it?
(sarcastically)
Three days, 11 hours, 25 minutes and 5 seconds. 139 cigarettes not smoked, saving £31.63. Life saved: 11 hours, 35 minutes.
Ugh!
That's one of my symptoms of quitting today. I feel very tired, a little bit yuk, some parts of me feel a bit ugghhh, and there are other parts of me feeling urk. This is all rolled up into a general feeling of blegh. If I was smoking I wouldn't feel blegh. I can balance this in the great scales, however, by remembering that if I was still smoking, I might have a migraine (haven't had one since I stopped, not even a hint of one). So, in general, I'll take the blegh, even if the feeling of torpor and lassitude associated with it is a bit disheartening.
So I'll post the meter, even though it's now getting to the stage where not much appears to change between flashes.
One week, six days, 7 hours, 43 minutes and 27 seconds. 399 cigarettes not smoked, saving £109.90. Life saved: 1 day, 9 hours, 15 minutes.
Although it will flip to 400 not smoked soon, but I don't know when. 20 packets not smoked. I can just imagine a tower of 20 Silk Cut packets. It's nice to know I've not smoked them.
Be nice to not feel blegh as well, though.
So I'll post the meter, even though it's now getting to the stage where not much appears to change between flashes.
One week, six days, 7 hours, 43 minutes and 27 seconds. 399 cigarettes not smoked, saving £109.90. Life saved: 1 day, 9 hours, 15 minutes.
Although it will flip to 400 not smoked soon, but I don't know when. 20 packets not smoked. I can just imagine a tower of 20 Silk Cut packets. It's nice to know I've not smoked them.
Be nice to not feel blegh as well, though.
Monday, 2 July 2007
Leading (a sonnet)
Leading
Whenever I went shopping, when told the total
For my groceries, I would have to add
"And twenty Silk Cut please." Is that purple?
They'd ask, and I'd say yes, and then feel bad
When I added, "Make that thirty, instead",
Knowing that I'd never make it through the day
And would otherwise, before the day was dead,
Have to climb into my car, make my way
To a twenty-four hour service station.
I thus ensured I had enough shit-sticks
To enable narcotic satisfaction
To the point of feeling just slightly sick.
It is madness, is it not, to be led
So by a drug, and not by heart and head?
Love Sonnet
Love Sonnet
Mayfair Smooth!, your shining pack
Held the scaffold of my day
Five for paying myself back
For the things I had that went away.
Ten to keep me bland and sweet
Tie up the bitch-cow out of sight
Five more so I don't need to eat
Ten more to help me drink all night.
I don't know where the others went.
They turned to brown stuff in my lungs.
I do like men. But best prevent
Myself from kissing them with tongues.
But you stole from me, you crappy lover
My money and youth. Fuck off. Its over.
Mayfair Smooth!, your shining pack
Held the scaffold of my day
Five for paying myself back
For the things I had that went away.
Ten to keep me bland and sweet
Tie up the bitch-cow out of sight
Five more so I don't need to eat
Ten more to help me drink all night.
I don't know where the others went.
They turned to brown stuff in my lungs.
I do like men. But best prevent
Myself from kissing them with tongues.
But you stole from me, you crappy lover
My money and youth. Fuck off. Its over.
Amazingly Difficult Creative Challenge!
Mystery Dude will be like hmmm yeah I'll have a go. Normal people will be like get over yourselves you pretentious ponces. But we're the quitters and, remember, we must be indulged! So get out your quills and have a go.
The challenge is this: compose a Shakesperean sonnet on the topic of Smoking.
Just in case the rhyme scheme for that has slipped your mind, it is
abab cdcd efef gg
And I think each line has to go to this rhythm (but not sure let's be liberal about that)
When I have dreams that I may cease to be
like der-DUH-der-DUH-der-DUH-der-DUH-der-DUH
Dude says: Yeh, that's like iambic pentameter darling
The challenge is this: compose a Shakesperean sonnet on the topic of Smoking.
Just in case the rhyme scheme for that has slipped your mind, it is
abab cdcd efef gg
And I think each line has to go to this rhythm (but not sure let's be liberal about that)
When I have dreams that I may cease to be
like der-DUH-der-DUH-der-DUH-der-DUH-der-DUH
Dude says: Yeh, that's like iambic pentameter darling
Foxed by New Toothbrush
It must quite common for recent quitters to develop a toothbrush fetish, since all those chirpy guides to quitting suggest you brush your teeth whenever you want a cigarette. Better not clean them forty times a day though, they'll end up as nubs!
I treated myself to a state-of-the-art toothbrush this morning. Its an Oral-B Pulsar, you seen one? Man, they are advanced. Distributed throughout the normal bristles are these little yellow rubber bits, they strongly resemble bees' legs. That's not all, you press a button on the handle and the bees' legs start to vibrate. Actually they kind of flap feebly, as though your bee is drowning in a jar of jammy water.
So far so good, but it is not clear how to apply the buzzing brush to your teeth. Do you just hold it against your teeth and pulse the detritus off? Or are you supposed to scrub in the traditional way with the pulsing as an additional boosting mechanism?
I got through the clean using an ad-libbed combo of the two methods. It probably explains it all on the packet but I can't read that tiny writing, not with my middle-aged smoker's eyes. If anyone has experience in modern tooth-brushing techniques I'd be grateful for any insights.
Cheers
Recommending Things
Hey, I'm on a blog! I can recommend things! And I'm quitting smoking, so recommending things is a useful thing to do in that it keeps my fingers occupied on this keyboard rather than doing things they didn't oughter.
Hang on while I do the patchouli thing. Ahhhhhhh
So I'd like to recommend the album Dynamo Mercurial by The Somatics. 21st Century art-prog-rock with a whiff of early Floyd, they have a fantastic ear for a tune. One of the highlights of the album is the four-part track The Lost Weekend. In fact, I'm going to listen to it now.
The band had problems getting a distribution deal and are selling the album through CDBaby. Click here to hear and buy.
And when I was watching the Glastonbury multiscreens on BBC interactive (ah, the wonders of digital television) I was arrested for forty minutes or so by the intriguing Bat for Lashes. I've yet to buy an album - but that is simply because I'm pauvre, otherwise I would. You can see them doing their thing on the BBC website.
Hang on while I do the patchouli thing. Ahhhhhhh
So I'd like to recommend the album Dynamo Mercurial by The Somatics. 21st Century art-prog-rock with a whiff of early Floyd, they have a fantastic ear for a tune. One of the highlights of the album is the four-part track The Lost Weekend. In fact, I'm going to listen to it now.
The band had problems getting a distribution deal and are selling the album through CDBaby. Click here to hear and buy.
And when I was watching the Glastonbury multiscreens on BBC interactive (ah, the wonders of digital television) I was arrested for forty minutes or so by the intriguing Bat for Lashes. I've yet to buy an album - but that is simply because I'm pauvre, otherwise I would. You can see them doing their thing on the BBC website.
Saved a Ton
Apart from 3DD (three days done) and FWD (first week down), saving my first hundred quid is one of my favourite quit milestones. I wanted to be awake to see the meter tick over, but I had the opposite problem to the always-lovely Dolores, in that I felt really tired last night and fell asleep so early I was actually awake by nine thirty this morning. So the meter doesn't look quite as dramatic as it could. Nonetheless, here it is:
One week, five days, 6 hours, 50 minutes and 19 seconds. 368 cigarettes not smoked, saving £101.35. Life saved: 1 day, 6 hours, 40 minutes.
One week, five days, 6 hours, 50 minutes and 19 seconds. 368 cigarettes not smoked, saving £101.35. Life saved: 1 day, 6 hours, 40 minutes.
Insomnia
Who forgot to tell me about the insomnia? Look at the time, look at the freaking time.
I stupidly forgot to get blind drunk before I went to bed where I'm been since before 11 and not a wink. Not a wink! Instead I've been tormented by fruity thoughts about people I would not generally touch with a bargepole. With a throat that feels like I have smoked 70 lovely ciggies.
How is this fair? How is this right? In a hour or so, Quit Day No. 3 ("Psycho Day") will be dawning and I have to get up at 7 and do a load of things. I can't just miss out a night's sleep, not at my age.
And oh yeah, Two days, 4 hours, 32 minutes and 45 seconds. 87 cigarettes not smoked, saving £19.92. Life saved: 7 hours, 15 minutes.
I want that 7 hours, 15 minutes I've allegedly saved, I want it right now! I can add it to the remaining 2.5 hours of this night and cobble together a decent night's sleep.
I stupidly forgot to get blind drunk before I went to bed where I'm been since before 11 and not a wink. Not a wink! Instead I've been tormented by fruity thoughts about people I would not generally touch with a bargepole. With a throat that feels like I have smoked 70 lovely ciggies.
How is this fair? How is this right? In a hour or so, Quit Day No. 3 ("Psycho Day") will be dawning and I have to get up at 7 and do a load of things. I can't just miss out a night's sleep, not at my age.
And oh yeah, Two days, 4 hours, 32 minutes and 45 seconds. 87 cigarettes not smoked, saving £19.92. Life saved: 7 hours, 15 minutes.
I want that 7 hours, 15 minutes I've allegedly saved, I want it right now! I can add it to the remaining 2.5 hours of this night and cobble together a decent night's sleep.
Sunday, 1 July 2007
Oh Lord I Can't Breathe
That's not true. That's not true at all. I am breathing as we speak.
I just feel like I can't breathe. Even that's not true. I know I'm breathing. So what is this feeling?
It's not unknown to me. I've broken quits over this feeling. How best to describe it? Like a tightness around the chest. It's annoying. Because I don't feel like this when I'm smoking, and one of the reasons for giving up is to feel better, so when I give up I don't expect to feel worse. I expect to feel good. But instead, I have a weird tightness around my chest that feels a bit like I can't breathe.
I'm not going to let it freak me out this time. It would be stupid, would it not, to start smoking over a feeling? A feeling that is related to quitting anyway, and is thus either my body adjusting to breathing oxygen, rather than CO and CO2, or is a psychosomatic attempt by me to make me smoke again.
Well, I'm not going to.
I just feel like I can't breathe. Even that's not true. I know I'm breathing. So what is this feeling?
It's not unknown to me. I've broken quits over this feeling. How best to describe it? Like a tightness around the chest. It's annoying. Because I don't feel like this when I'm smoking, and one of the reasons for giving up is to feel better, so when I give up I don't expect to feel worse. I expect to feel good. But instead, I have a weird tightness around my chest that feels a bit like I can't breathe.
I'm not going to let it freak me out this time. It would be stupid, would it not, to start smoking over a feeling? A feeling that is related to quitting anyway, and is thus either my body adjusting to breathing oxygen, rather than CO and CO2, or is a psychosomatic attempt by me to make me smoke again.
Well, I'm not going to.
Oh no what did I do last night?
Let's start with things being all nicey-nicey and say:
One day, 18 hours, 50 minutes and 39 seconds. 71 cigarettes not smoked, saving £16.24. Life saved: 5 hours, 55 minutes.
I have to tell how I got through my first smoke-free night because its either funny or horrifying depending on your perspective.
First I drank the dregs of a bottle of wine, then chased that with another full bottle of wine. I was desperate for a fag by then so, with drunk logic, I went to The Forgotten Shelf and found two dusty magic bottles, one containing a peach schnapps type thing and another Islay whisky. Thrilled with my haul I went back to the basement to get into trouble with MSN.
One of my fondest platonic loves (he's the Plato fan, not me) is this fella who talks to me regular on MSN, except when I am blocking him for some imagined slight. We both enjoy swearing, though in real life we are as posh as can be.
As in:
Me: You are such a w*nky c*nt-faced tit
Him: Well at least I'm not a c*nty tit-faced w*nker like you.
So in a drink-fuelled frenzy of creativity I suggest we put our swearing skills to the test and compose a poem with lots of swear words in it.
Which is how "Spunk Song" came about. Sadly the details are now lost to history, I just know that this collaborative work seemed to me possibly the finest poem ever written. Nothing would do but I published! I would be courageous and dare to push the boundaries of art! I would be the Tracy Emin of blogging!
So anyone stopping by the blog this morning would have been the only people to have read this seminal (groan) work.
Was driving to my friend's house about lunchtime, car full of kids, centre of Bracknell, when in a series of vivid flashbacks it came back to me what I had done. I nearly killed us all by attempting to bury my head in my hands while driving. I had to pull over and call Mystery Dude to please unpublish the obscene pome. Which he did, thanks mate. [It burned my eyes out in the process - Ed]
Incidentally this is only one in a series of ill-advised incidents from last night. Other travesties include inviting someone who is considering volunteering to be my boyfriend (I think) to come and sleep with me, also possibly asking my collaborator the same thing (not sure about that one, but probably did, usually do) before doing a really nasty character assassination on him for attempting to infringe my right to publish our dirty poems wheresoever I damned pleased.
Sorry to everyone involved in the fall-out from my Festival of Binge-Drinking. Please forgive me and imagine my funny face looking all contrite and ashamed.
And you know what? I did not have a single puff.
One day, 18 hours, 50 minutes and 39 seconds. 71 cigarettes not smoked, saving £16.24. Life saved: 5 hours, 55 minutes.
I have to tell how I got through my first smoke-free night because its either funny or horrifying depending on your perspective.
First I drank the dregs of a bottle of wine, then chased that with another full bottle of wine. I was desperate for a fag by then so, with drunk logic, I went to The Forgotten Shelf and found two dusty magic bottles, one containing a peach schnapps type thing and another Islay whisky. Thrilled with my haul I went back to the basement to get into trouble with MSN.
One of my fondest platonic loves (he's the Plato fan, not me) is this fella who talks to me regular on MSN, except when I am blocking him for some imagined slight. We both enjoy swearing, though in real life we are as posh as can be.
As in:
Me: You are such a w*nky c*nt-faced tit
Him: Well at least I'm not a c*nty tit-faced w*nker like you.
So in a drink-fuelled frenzy of creativity I suggest we put our swearing skills to the test and compose a poem with lots of swear words in it.
Which is how "Spunk Song" came about. Sadly the details are now lost to history, I just know that this collaborative work seemed to me possibly the finest poem ever written. Nothing would do but I published! I would be courageous and dare to push the boundaries of art! I would be the Tracy Emin of blogging!
So anyone stopping by the blog this morning would have been the only people to have read this seminal (groan) work.
Was driving to my friend's house about lunchtime, car full of kids, centre of Bracknell, when in a series of vivid flashbacks it came back to me what I had done. I nearly killed us all by attempting to bury my head in my hands while driving. I had to pull over and call Mystery Dude to please unpublish the obscene pome. Which he did, thanks mate. [It burned my eyes out in the process - Ed]
Incidentally this is only one in a series of ill-advised incidents from last night. Other travesties include inviting someone who is considering volunteering to be my boyfriend (I think) to come and sleep with me, also possibly asking my collaborator the same thing (not sure about that one, but probably did, usually do) before doing a really nasty character assassination on him for attempting to infringe my right to publish our dirty poems wheresoever I damned pleased.
Sorry to everyone involved in the fall-out from my Festival of Binge-Drinking. Please forgive me and imagine my funny face looking all contrite and ashamed.
And you know what? I did not have a single puff.
Obligatory Meter Flash 2
One week, four days, 8 hours, 48 minutes and 53 seconds. 341 cigarettes not smoked, saving £93.78. Life saved: 1 day, 4 hours, 25 minutes.
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