It's remarkable.
Maybe it wasn't just an excuse.
Perhaps there is some ontological connection between school work and cigarettes; like Jesuits and Scotch; hippies and patchouli; tacos and cheese. Could it be that all this time, as I fought with myself and my wife, that should have been smoking cigarettes all along?
If not, then why am I having so much difficulty getting myself through the obviously enjoyable read, Exceptional Learners: Introduction to Special Education? I figured I would fly through that shit like I did Lemon by Lawrence Krauser and, before that, The Convalescent, by Jessica Anthony - both published by McSweeneys.
Maybe I sensed the end of my literary freedom with my looming return to academic life (once again). One of my prerequisites the BCTR is enrollment and completion of an introduction to special education course; and my course through the University of Phoenix has begun.
Mind you, it is only one class, and it will be done in three weeks, and the working isn't unbearable - even though it is quite substantial - but, once again, I am under the thumb of an instructor who tells me what to read, how much, and by when. Fuck, I hate textbooks. There has to be a better way to relay this information to me.
But then again, I did have to read H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) in grad. school...
Uncommon denominator: cigarettes.
So just as a decide, 'Today is the day. I have to get my groove back; and then go to Safeway!', I sit down at my computer, put iTunes on random, and get this:
...like an injection, directly in my veins. I feel all my anxiety melt into the hard wooden chair on which I rest, the chair now transformed into a plush leisure chair, and I breathe in, and I breathe out, and it is gone. So simple. I almost forgot. I can read just fine, thank you.
And now, I feel like doing this:
which I will be doing out the door...especially the Camel walk, motherfucker! Just to spite my former frienemy...
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Day One-Hundred and Six
Is this it? Have I finally reached the promised land?
I spent my One-Hundredth day of nicotine abstinence gallivanting about San Francisco with the wife. On this particular day, I recall devouring the most delicious Chinese food to ever touch my lips at House of Nanking. Heaven on a plate.
Even in my worst smoking days, vacationing with the wife was always the best cigarette deterrent. In fact, I hardly ever craved a smoke when in her angelic presence, and this particular vacation was no exception.
We walked across the Golden Gate Bridge, which was interesting. Looking at this historic landmark in person felt overwhelming, and the prospect of traversing it on foot exhilarating. And yet, as we reached the other side, there was a noted absence of stickers, t-shirts, and balloons; no one was cheering; there was no party waiting for its two guests of honor to finally arrive.
And here I am, fifteen-weeks smoke-free, waiting for my victory party. I have certainly conquered my cigarette addiction, but where are the bells and whistles? Why is the first thought that pops in my head on my way out the door for a game of chess, or to run a few errands, 'First stop: Royal Farms'? What does this mean?
I spent my One-Hundredth day of nicotine abstinence gallivanting about San Francisco with the wife. On this particular day, I recall devouring the most delicious Chinese food to ever touch my lips at House of Nanking. Heaven on a plate.
Even in my worst smoking days, vacationing with the wife was always the best cigarette deterrent. In fact, I hardly ever craved a smoke when in her angelic presence, and this particular vacation was no exception.
We walked across the Golden Gate Bridge, which was interesting. Looking at this historic landmark in person felt overwhelming, and the prospect of traversing it on foot exhilarating. And yet, as we reached the other side, there was a noted absence of stickers, t-shirts, and balloons; no one was cheering; there was no party waiting for its two guests of honor to finally arrive.
And here I am, fifteen-weeks smoke-free, waiting for my victory party. I have certainly conquered my cigarette addiction, but where are the bells and whistles? Why is the first thought that pops in my head on my way out the door for a game of chess, or to run a few errands, 'First stop: Royal Farms'? What does this mean?
Friday, March 11, 2011
Day Ninety-Four
I've spent these past Ninety-three days documenting my struggle to quit smoking. It has been successful, and something of which I am quite proud on multiple levels.
Yet, on a day like today, as I turn on the news and watch this,
my entire task begins to shrink and shrivel into a crumbly nothingness; like setting a flame to the thin plastic wrapping of a pack of smokes. I hesitate to refer to it as a 'journey' - as I have so many times before - because it hardly seems worthy of a word of such power and supposed import. 'A journey' sounds much grander and relevant than quitting smoking is. This is no 'journey to Middle Earth'; this is cutting out a useless addiction and addition to my life.
This terrifying and utterly sublime event forces us to turn inward and consider that which we may in fact control in our lives; because the contents of this video are complete and unstoppable. It is our choice to raise up arms and destroy our fellow brothers and sisters, and it is our own will to fire up a Camel Light which will ruin our lungs and end our eistence, but the thousands of lives which have been destroyed by the natural events in Japan autochthonous: they are self-arising, naturally occuring, inevitable.
All I can think right now is: how hard is it really to quit? How much import can I really place in this quite meaningful and superfluous act?
Yet, on a day like today, as I turn on the news and watch this,
my entire task begins to shrink and shrivel into a crumbly nothingness; like setting a flame to the thin plastic wrapping of a pack of smokes. I hesitate to refer to it as a 'journey' - as I have so many times before - because it hardly seems worthy of a word of such power and supposed import. 'A journey' sounds much grander and relevant than quitting smoking is. This is no 'journey to Middle Earth'; this is cutting out a useless addiction and addition to my life.
This terrifying and utterly sublime event forces us to turn inward and consider that which we may in fact control in our lives; because the contents of this video are complete and unstoppable. It is our choice to raise up arms and destroy our fellow brothers and sisters, and it is our own will to fire up a Camel Light which will ruin our lungs and end our eistence, but the thousands of lives which have been destroyed by the natural events in Japan autochthonous: they are self-arising, naturally occuring, inevitable.
All I can think right now is: how hard is it really to quit? How much import can I really place in this quite meaningful and superfluous act?
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Day Ninety-One
I have finally reached the adolescence of my cigarette quitting. Thirteen weeks. I have noticed some abnormal changes in my body recently...
Abnormal insofar as I have finally stabilized my appetite. For the first many weeks, I could not stop eating, no matter what I ate or how much of it. The wife and I would fill up on sushi, Tom yung goong, and seaweed salad, and yet still find myself cataloguing every edible entity in our house on our short walk home. I helplessly watched my stomach slowly reach over my belt buckle toward my zipper like an eager Calvert Street-walker...Of course, whenever I would think, 'I wish I could just stop being hungry', we all know by now my mind's response...
But, lo and behold, my body seems to have finally readjusted to my lack of nicotine intake. I can finally eat an appropriate amount of food on a reasonable schedule - normally - and my belly has begun to rescind. I'm happy it was unnecessary to increase my general activity level or, even worse, begin an exercise regiment.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, I bought a pack of cigs a few days ago. Not for myself, of course, but for a certain friend of mine who smokes those nasty Camel Crushes. I haven't stepped foot inside a Royal Farms for quite a while now, yet the whole exchange remains oddly familiar. Same middle aged, mildly chubby woman - I think I even threw her for a loop when I said 'Crush'. I'm pretty sure she remembered me. Is that sad? Is it sad I remember her? I think her name is Alicia.
Two things. 1: Crushes got expensive, which means cig prices have certainly gone up, once again. Suckers! 2: My boy smokes a lot of cigs. As a smoker, I used to keep up with him fairly well, but now, peering in from my non-smoking spectacles, it seems a little crazy. Like, a cig every commercial break during Top Chef, and then one after every game of Fifa, playing only four minute halves. I'm not judging my poor smoking friend; I just can't believe how much I used to smoke. It never seemed like too much when I was still smoking...
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Day Eighty-Six
I know this is inappropriate...
So I was watching this commercial. It interrupted my favorite three-o'clock television show - on ABC - and it got me thinking: Man. It must be quite awful to have to take a pill to prevent from 'springing an embarrassing leak', but then 'become constipated for three or more days'. What a terribly ironic product...
It got me thinking about my own plumbing; and then standing outside on a cool morning, drinking my second cup of coffee - first is consumed with my morning bagel; and how smokers know that there is some bizarre reaction that takes place between nicotine and a warm cup of coffee that gets things moving. It is quite remarkable, in fact. Like clockwork. You get about three-quarters down your Camel Light, and you feel a gentle kick, and you know...
Its weird writing about poop. I seemed to work much better in my head...
And, if that all wasn't enough, while considering and writing about my bowels, this lovely voiced woman had the solution after all! Hmm...
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Day Eighty-Five
Without getting into specifics - as this is a blog about ME, rather than the intimate details of my friends and colleagues - I found myself NOT driving home to my lovely wife and our breakfast-for-dinner consisting of free-range, organic eggs on whole wheat toast and hash browns; but driving downtown last night with a certain favorite person of mine after a long ten-and-a-half-hour monotonously mind-melting day of book contracts and FileMaker to a place neither myself nor my companion wished we would ever have to travel again. Hopefully, this time will be the last...
I was neither angry nor frustrated, but the confluence of the end of my work day with the beginning of this unexpected journey had both of us thinking, 'Cigarettes'! See, this other happens to also be in the process of quitting, so cram two former smoking buddies, a postponed dinner, and stressful situation into a Subaru Impreza, and nothing good can come out of it...
Unless no one has any fucking cigarettes! Fuck! I truly was a little pissed for a minute and thought, 'Oh shit. This would have been a great excuse. The wife wouldn't even be able to get mad!' My navigator would have been elated to find a half-crushed pack of Camel Lights in my center console, eagerly awaiting a moment like this one. We probably could have even smoked two on the ride down there because, shit, we would already have reeked; so what is one more cig, right?
But no. I am a good quitter. I have always been the reliable one when it came to cigarette supply, and, in this case, we both were happy for my failure. That's what friends are for, right? To not facilitate others' addictions. To break down the barriers to success like a...
I was neither angry nor frustrated, but the confluence of the end of my work day with the beginning of this unexpected journey had both of us thinking, 'Cigarettes'! See, this other happens to also be in the process of quitting, so cram two former smoking buddies, a postponed dinner, and stressful situation into a Subaru Impreza, and nothing good can come out of it...
Unless no one has any fucking cigarettes! Fuck! I truly was a little pissed for a minute and thought, 'Oh shit. This would have been a great excuse. The wife wouldn't even be able to get mad!' My navigator would have been elated to find a half-crushed pack of Camel Lights in my center console, eagerly awaiting a moment like this one. We probably could have even smoked two on the ride down there because, shit, we would already have reeked; so what is one more cig, right?
But no. I am a good quitter. I have always been the reliable one when it came to cigarette supply, and, in this case, we both were happy for my failure. That's what friends are for, right? To not facilitate others' addictions. To break down the barriers to success like a...
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