I'm a little disappointed in myself today. My thoughts of smoking and about smoking are more frequent and compelling then they were yesterday. I feel like some sort of creepy, obsessed ex-lover, ducking down in my 1980's sports car as I watch Nicotine pass me by. I know nothing good will come of our relationship, and Nicotine will only hurt me in the end, but it feels so good when we're together.

Apparently, I need a restraining order and some fucking therapy.

I regret this being such a random event; I could have been smart and planned it out. I wish I would have chosen a Friday to quit. It's so hard to focus on little tasks and get things done at work. I've been staring at a static PC monitor for most of the day and I still can't collect enough thoughts to get my work done. Even an attempt to write a few sentences for this blog has taken me an extensive amount of time. It would have been a lot easier to start on a Friday and sleep off the side-effects over the weekend, bet staying asleep has been a real bitch. I have been waking up every hour or so, wide eyed for a brief moment or two before I catch a glimpse of the clock. I scolding myself for being wide awake and a complete fucking idiot at three in the morning.

The chills and itchiness are still with me today, the intensity has not subsided for either. Something new to complain about today though, the back of my legs are probably the worst with "pins and needles." I've consumed plenty of water, a decent amount of food, a few OTC pain relievers, but nothing is helping so far. I haven't felt anything spectacular as far as healing and recovery go, but then again it's only day two and most of time I'm not really giving a fuck.

The junkie hasn't come out of me yet today, but I'm expecting its return in full force. Yesterday was pretty rough as I began rationalizing my nic-fits with emotions that I've never even known about prior to quitting. I was jealous of other smokers that were ingesting all the nasty crap associated with smoking.

My fucking jaw hurts. I am tired of chewing gum. I stole Mango-Berry flavored gum off the kitchen counter this morning and I am sick of it's stale fucking flavor. Normally I enjoy chewing spearmint gum, but since I associate that flavor with occasionally lighting up a cigarette, I've decided to try something new. I have to remind myself every so often not to eat it, it's not fucking candy. I force myself to NOT swallow a new piece of fruity sensation that pounds the withdrawal of nicotine right into the unforgiving clench of my teeth as they chew with resentment.

My skin itches as if I've rolled myself in a pile of insulation just after a hot shower. My feet, hands, throat, back, face, ears, scalp, and places that I didn't even know could itch are screaming for fingernails to rip open my flesh.

Yesterday I wrote down my reasoning to quit using tobacco and I felt good about the decision I was making. After just 12 hours I have turned into a fucking junkie ready to pawn my own mother off to an all male prison for just one drag.

PART 1.

I can’t even begin to tell you that I remember it like it was just yesterday, because I’m getting old and my memory is about as quick as a turtle slathered in molasses, but I’ll give it a shot anyways...

I remember it was another glorious and mud filled spring, filled to the brim with opportunities of moving into the doomsday dwelling. The birds were chirping until their beaks shattered, and the doomsday house was opening her doors wide to welcome in her new tenants. Yeah, the house that swallowed people whole in the summer and spat them out to a cold cruel world in the winter was waiting with baited breath to antagonize me and my family once again. Being easily led by the house’s false seductions, I casually carried on my ritualistic voyeurism from the back deck to watch the new bait move in.

I don’t recall how many individuals were moving in, but I know the family appeared to unfold like an accordion out of the vehicles, teenagers here, a whiny brat there, and grown up or two somewhere in the midst, but all and all it was a shitload of teenagers. At this point I should have been hearing evil trumpets of destruction blaring in the background, I should have heard unearthed angels crying for me in desperation, but there were no sounds to forewarn me of the tiring days that lay ahead. None.

The family was Mexican, and just to clarify, I don’t point that out to be a racist or stereotypical blockhead; I point out that their Mexican heritage quickly became a part of my life when the music began playing out of their windows at all hours of the day. My peace and quiet smoke breaks out on the back deck were now accompanied with a frantic and frivolous set of maracas! YIPPY! Fucking Skippy!

The younger teenagers of the house were active basketball fans playing loud and obnoxious games of two on two that could be heard day in and day out. From the school bells until the sun went down I could hear them playing. Ka-thud. Ka-thud. Ka-thud. KA-THUD. P-TANG. Thump thump thump. AWESOME!

Fortunately, none of these actions sealed my neighbors’ fate of disapproval until one fine, summer day I was mowing the lawn. While my headphones were screaming Metallica or some other such thrash metal band to keep my legs motivated, something caught my eye. It wasn't their paper plates scattered through my lawn, or their beer cans caught under the fence line, what I spotted was a three foot tall cannabis plant hidden in their backyard. Yes, three fucking feet of home grown Mary-Jane growing right there on the other side of our swing-set. I even gathered a second opinion from A-me to ensure my drug testing adolescence wasn't playing tricks on me, and astonishingly enough, she agreed with me for once. Our neighbors’ lawn was undeniably infested with cocklebur and weed. MARVELOUS!

We were rather appalled by this growth between our houses. This damn plant was now hindering the bonds of neighborly love. How could we really come to enjoy basketball filled evenings set in the ambiance of a Mariachi band when we can't get over the damn drugs in the back yard? Do we jump the fence and take the damn thing for ourselves, make brownies and forget where we even live? Do I run over there with the weed eater and turn that damn thing into chopped parsley? Do we become the nosy, annoying, neighborhood watch type of neighbors and call the police, or do we sit back idly until their harvest season?

It turns out we really didn't do much of anything at all, except tell everyone we knew about this massive shrub. Jokes were made, drug tests were threatened, and no brownies were eaten. Shortly after that fine summer day another fine summer day rolled in and the shrub was gone. A shovel and a very large black garbage bag sat by their door for a day or two before I witnessed the oldest teenage boy placing the large bag inside of a red, faded, four door jalopy driven by another "old" teenager. A drug deal, right here next to my back yard. NEAT!

The doomsday dwelling lived up to my expectations for those first spring and summer days, until the day that the woman tossed the man and children to the curb. Things were said, things were broken, and then for a moment, things were quiet.

I would love to meet the guy that came up with the phrase "sleeping on the couch is like camping, we really don't mind." I would give anything to inform him that he's a fucking idiot, and after three consecutive nights of sleeping on the couch my back hurts. I wake up screaming with charlie cramps in my legs, and there's a draft coming from the front door that pushes my testicles clear past my tonsils. The guy's a fucking prick for ever giving the notion to ladies that it's "okay" to put my miserable ass on the couch for some fatuous comment I made, which is now irrelevant because I don't fucking remember what it was I said anyways. So here's to you, asshole, I'm now blaming you for all my problems.

...PS! I swear, promise, and with some other empty version of truth, plan to write the next installment for the doomsday neighbors one of these days. Maybe when I get a little more sleep I'll consider it.

If anything good were to come out of flooding, it would be highly marketable, and soon enough, everyone I know will own one of these awesome t-shirts.