I’ve finally ditched two bad habits, both lasting as long as six years:
My long-term live-in boyfriend/Neanderthal Man
The first one was easier to give up than the second.
I am trying to lift myself out of this seemingly constant state of despair; despair from losing the crutch that endlessly helped me through crisis after crisis.
1) I have not smoked for 3.5 days. Three days is the clincher. According to my GP, if you can overcome three days, you are going to be alright.
2) It’s been pure unprecedented Hell, but with the help of orange juice (thank you Jam), chewing gum and biltong snap sticks, I am still alive.
3) Small Bum says I smell and taste great.
4) In 83 hours of smoking abstinence, I have saved approximately R52. By the end of the month, it would account for a killer pair of leather stilettos. Possibly even from Socrati.
However. Anger inside me stirs like an evil beast. For with nicotine withdrawal, comes these unpleasantries:
1) Pure resentment. I secretly hate Small Bum.
2) That consistent taste of bleach in my mouth (which is now slowly subsiding)
3) I don’t really hate Small Bum. I am actually in love with him. I have just hated him over the last three days because of that very reason. I love him. Yes I do. And because he made me give up smoking, he has to face the music. My crabbiness anyhow.
4) I am not fun Peas anymore. I’m miserable, snappy unsociable Peas.
5) I’m too depressed to even play with myself. It’s. This. Serious.
On Saturday, my mother has booked for her, myself, my ever-abiding step-father and Small Bum to go and see some sort of ‘Carpenters’ concert. Because “everyone loves the Carpenters!” Oh my Gad. Even as I presently resent the chap, I feel sorry for Small Bum that he has to put up with me and my mother’s endless fascination and adoration for these two somewhat nerdy and heavily anorexic singers.
Bwahahahahaha (evil laugh). Hopefully I’ll be too shitfaced to feel uncomfortable or embarrassed.