No fag, all hag.

Apparently I've been smober (what kind of shitty made-up word is that!?) for
One month, 4 hours, 35 minutes and 44 seconds

With
935 cigarettes not smoked, saving £193.23

Oh, and
Life saved: 3 days, 5 hours, 55 minutes

Go me, yeah? Er, no. Right now I would kill for a fag.

Eh? Who would I kill?

Oh. Not thought about that bit.

Anyway, fuck off. What I mean is I feel a bit strongly which is quite absolutely silly cos it's been fairly okay, for the month up to now, as cravings go. (Don't talk to me about the weight gain though, I've eaten so much green veg and salad it's a wonder I'm not shitting rabbit pellets but have I lost weight? Have I arseholes, I've gained so much I now have my own postcode.)

My various, previously patch assisted quits gave me much more day-to-day trouble than this one has and never felt as permanent (which they weren't, obviously and hence, piss off, etc.) I remember without the least fondness the hours upon hours I spent crying out from some deep, dark place of angst and longing; reaching out with desperate fingers that were just short of the length needed to scratch the itch I felt in the depths of my very soul. Even the phrase 'scratch the itch' doesn't quite express the pain; this really was athletes foot of the psyche. Something like 'mercilessly rip the scab away, exposing the layers under the dermis and setting the blood flowing freely' might come close, I guess. Babies crawling across ceilings would have been a welcome respite from the mad, freaky dreams I had so even sleep didn't help when it came.

This has been nothing like that, on the whole. I am now that fabled person you hear of that smoked thirty a day for 24 years then just woke up one day and never smoked again. I'm an urban legend come to fat, whingey life, I tell you.

Oh for fucks fucking sake. I have some music I really like and felt like playing at the moment, sent to me by ML who can only communicate, musically, in iPod language. I'm obviously the last person in the world that speaks mpfucking3 and I can't find the thingy to convert it. That's the other thing, I've gone all ditzy and brainless since I quit. Or that may be cos the kids have been off school for a week. Or both. Either way I can't focus on a task to completion, repeat myself a lot, can't write a shopping list let alone fiction or a blog, forget things even more than usual and repeat... yeah ok, shit joke and I won't go there.

Ick. Right, time for an Angieplan.

1 - Get dressed (Noooooooo! It's sunday!)
2 - Stop moaning and get dressed.
3 - Find some cash, remember how to drive.
4 - Stop in salad section of Sainsburys to blow loud raspberries and stick fingers up at anything green.
5 - Go to chocolate aisle. Inhale.
6 - Return home. Blow nose on size 12 jeans.
7 - Make gym plan for next week when kids are back at school.

Lambent, if you say 'have a fag' I'll hunt you down and fuck you to death. Oh, and I've lost the url of that Mr P bloke, mail me it please you sexy beast? Mwah. Good lad, you know I love you really.