Well, I suppose this year will be
known as The Year of Quitting. I quit my job and now I'm
going to quit smoking. Still haven't quit abusing my cat
with a fork, though...
Actually, I'm more than halfway through
my plan to quit smoking. I started on October 29th and I
will be finished on November 17th. Since I averaged about
one pack of cigarettes per day, I began the Quitting Plan with 20 cigarettes
the first day. Then 19 the next day. Then 18 the day
after that. All the way to zero and then I'm done. I
was going to go cold turkey, but I did that once before (when I
quit for a whole day--whoopee do) and I became violently
ill. Puking, hallucinating, shaking, the whole deal.
The nicotine withdrawal crushed me. So I decided to go the gradual route. Good plan, huh?
Well, mostly. The problem I'm having is that each day I'm
obsessing about when I can have my next cigarette. In
typical Glenn fashion, I have a daily
spread
sheet which shows the times I'm allowing myself to smoke. And
this spread sheet is sitting two inches from my keyboard, so I
keep looking at the damn thing. And starting at
it. And wondering when the fuck I can have another mother-goddamn-fucking----
Sorry. Little jumpy today.
Anyway, today is Day 7 (which means I'm allowing myself 7
smokes) and I suppose I'm doing okay. Right now, the mental
part of quitting smoking is the most difficult. When
you're used to lighting up at least every hour on the hour for
the past fifteen years, it's a not easy to break the
habit. And it's going to be very hard to give up
the Big Four Smokes: The First Thing In The Morning Smoke, the
After Eating Smoke, the Drinking Beer Smoke, and the Last Thing
At Night Smoke. But for the sake of my poor charcoaled
lungs (not to mention Beth's half-charcoaled lungs), I gotta do
what I gotta do. It's time.
Wish
me goddamn luck.
