At around midnight tonight, possibly plus a couple of hours, I will have been withholding for four whole days. Withholding means abstaining, which is not the same as quitting, because remember, actually saying that I am quitting smoking commits me to a series of actions that leads me to inhaling several cigarettes in a row and completely giving up on the withholding strategy.
The above paragraph is there solely as an explanation for the following related and unrelated items, because yesterday's entry did such a bang up job of keeping me away from the cigarette store, I thought I'd do it again.
Not smoking has robbed me of my ability to stay on one topic for too long, but not to worry. I am told that this ability should return within five to seven days following my initial cessation when my brain returns to its pre-nicotine style functioning.
I was reminded of my childhood fear of tulips this morning, because someone in the office was selling bunches of them for charity. At least these ones were purple and not in full bloom. The worst ones are bright red and open so that I can see the violence of their black centres. It's nasty. If you don't know what I'm talking about, read this.
Everything seems out of control today. I can't seem to get my work done in any sort of proper order or time limit, my mind is zipping about like light in fiberoptic cable, and nothing seems quite real. A co-worker said that she is having the same problem and joked about full moons. I checked. It's a full moon today.
This shouldn't surprise me. A full moon is as unsubtle as a thwack up the back of my head. My uterus did this weird crampy thing last night, my brain's on overdrive, I feel so lucid that reality seems dreamlike, time is going fast-slow-fast-slow-fast. I freaking love it.
Whenever I feel like I'm forgetting what it is to feel alive or am fearing becoming one of the boringly sane, I should just remember to wait for a full moon to come along.
I still haven't had a cigarette, which is very good, but I am now craving beer like it's going out of style. My brain knows that if I have beer in front of me, my resolve to continue withholding will be substantially weakened. My brain is a conniving twat.
I will not be defeated so easily.
On a somewhat related note, here is a picture of me (and the Fiery One's besocked toes), the me who had probably recently had a cigarette around the time of the photograph, at Christmas:
See, I was all blurry back then. LET THIS BE A LESSON TO YOU.
Some guy that I know read this weblog and had this to say about it: "It's a bit self-referential". No shit, Sherlock. This thing is about me in some way, shape, or form twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, rain or shine, like it or lump it. Calling this place "a bit self-referential" is like calling rain a little wet or the sun a little bright. It's called "unabashed self-agrandizement through the cheapest form of self-promotion out there", buddy, and don't you forget it.
Because the WHOLE WORLD cares that I am refraining from smoking cigarettes.
Photo by Joann Carney
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