Tuesday, May 24, 2011

junkies moving house and going cold turkey

So the world didn't end on Saturday. The Christians are still here and the retarded dude that heralded it all has gone missing.

Turns out he's the only one who got raptured.

Oh, and Iceland exploded. Again. Only a few days late to warrant any coincidence of an apocalypse.

All this happened while we moved in last weekend.

Not that we gave one dingleberry of a shit. Last weekend was one of the most hideous tests of our relationship in all the time we've known each other.

More of a test than doing long-distance for a year. Yes. That bad.

The Brit and I, a week ago, used to be regular smokers. The only way we were ever going to stop, is together. And even then, I had resigned myself to the fact that I'd never quit because I simply couldn't. I'd failed and failed and failed some more, and smoking was now just an intricate part of my character.

We got a free smoking cessation thing at work, so thought we'd better take it. Very reluctantly at first.

Well. The sheer hell of:

1) going cold turkey on nicotine
2) painting a fucking house
3) moving a fucking house

altogether? At once? Words cannot explain.

However, it's been ONE WEEK. Today. Of no smoking, and we had our first night in our place last night. We opened up a bottle of Diemersfontein pinotage that I've been stashing away for the occasion, sat on our rug (our couch hasn't arrived yet), boxes and screwdrivers and paint all around us, and toasted to the fact that we are now in our new home.

And didn't break up during the whole godawful ordeal.

Sure, we told each other to fuck off every five seconds. Snapped and threw proper tantrums every other five seconds. Dropped shit and slammed doors. Threatened to go and smoke an entire box of B&H.
Me crying into my bed for a solid three hours on Sunday, mourning the loss of my cigarette friends.

I felt so depressed, I couldn't stop crying. But apparently that's what happens when you're a junkie going cold turkey.

It was messy. And we got through it. One fucking whole week.

Jesus fuck, what a nightmare. I hope this is the final time I ever have to quit smoking. The cold turkey is so fucking horrible, I think next time I'll just throw myself in front of a bus. That would be easier.

And we got through it. I think this makes us pretty fucking strong if you ask me.

And we're in our fabulous new flat. Out of the ghetto, we drove out of the council estate last night for the last time.
I've been in London, [almost] a year, not even. And now having an actual home, with the person I love?

Wow. Who'd a thunk it.


Anonymous said...

Wellp, you'd-a thunk it, ah s'pose? Muchos congrats on quitting. For that alone, you deserve to celebrate.
Cheers to improving your senses of smell and taste, now you'll be able to appreciate the amazing Euro-fusion foodie offerings so much more (that is, assuming you are flu-free).
Cheers to losing the smoker-pong that clung to you after every fag.
Cheers to saving muchos pounds, that you can now blow on romantic weekends at an Alpine resort, or remote Mediterranean beach.
Cheers to not interrupting conversations so that you can stand out in the snow to satiate the urge, giving in to your tiny paper-wrapped evil master.
Cheers to much less tar in your airways and not hacking up bits of lung before you're 50.
Cheers to you both, nice one, guv. Nice one

cassey said...

To say moving is tough is an understatement. Well done on getting it done without killing each other or reaching for a smoke :)

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