Tomorrow is Doomsday

February 1, 2010 is going to suck some royal ass.

I'm done with the cigarettes. Or so I hope. I have this deal with Julia. I'll quit smoking and she'll stick to her diabetes diet.

We may end up drawing blood by the end of the week.

I've quit before. A few times. I always turn the car back around, though. For one reason or another. A breakup. A stressful day at work. A family member dead.

Why is it that I cope with life by putting smoke into my lungs? Does that even make any sense? I get the whole nicotine is more addictive than cocaine shit, but, essentially, all I'm doing is dealing with my issues by breathing in smoke.

And I absolutely love it. LOVE IT. God, it feels amazing to light up that cigarette and just breathe, watching the rich orange coil burn at the tip and into my cells.

When I say it like that, it doesn't seem so disgusting, does it?

That's just the brooding poet lurking inside of me.

It's going to suck. Suck ass, as I said above. Royal. Fucking. Ass.

Wipe.

How am I going to do this? I have no fucking idea.

5:30 a.m. is gym time. Then drive Julia to the train, Mason to school, and back to the gym at 11 a.m. for my free personal trainer session.

Then what the fuck is my nicotine-craving, aching veins going to do?

Sleep.

That's what I've heard is the best way to handle the screamies, the crazies, and the dummies. Cuz that's what you get in the first 48 hours. You go crazy. You scream. You become completely DUMB.

No diggity. No doubt.

The thing that lasts the longest: the dummies. I will be, literally, a fucking mentally disabled human for at least two weeks. I will have to relearn everything. Relearn how to think and write and breathe without the act of smoking a cigarette.

Oy.
Ugh.
Bleh.

I need a cigarette.