Quitting smoking

For a while now I have been battling with myself to give up the cancer-sticks. The patch seems to work alright when I have them, but a week or so after the program I get all “give me a cigarette now or I’ll cut you!!” On my poor husband and he caves (not wanting to be cut of course.) I’ve had a lot of time to contemplate why I was under the impression that quitting would make me a better person, it doesn’t by the way. Healthier person? Yes. Better? Only if you think It’s an improvement that I shriek random curse words at others for no reason now. OK, THAT is pretty cool. unless you’re a toddler. Or that perticular toddler’s mother. (I can’t express enough how sorry I am, and dick-hole just kind-of popped right out there unexpected. SURPRISE!)
Maybe one day, far in the future (when There’s no stress and I live with mermaids) I’ll be able to give up my sweet sweet nicotine without becoming a foul mouthed ogre. I doubt that though. (The quitting, not the mermaids. Because I’m SO going to live with mermaids when I turn fifty. Don’t you judge me. You’re not God.) Until this mystical far off day (because unicorns will be there too, and they’re mystical as fuck) you can find me, outside, puffing on my l&m because I’m cool like that. Or maybe because I don’t want to cross that line between “she’s a nice girl, just a little….special.” and “holy shit-balls, that’s the lady who throws cats at you! keep your distance!” And frankly, that’s a thin line.


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