Sickarette (168 hours since last cigarette)

I can't believe it's been nearly four months since my last post.

Currently, I'm in bed, listening to a mashup tribute to Dean Martin, and revelling in the fact that while there's a better than average possibility I may pass out mid-sentence, I finally have time and inspiration occurring simultaneously. I'm just waiting for the Nurofen to kick in.

Ahhh, there we go.

On the quitting front there has been almost nothing to report. Until recently. You may remember last time I indicated that I was in that cutting back stage. If you don't remember there's a link somewhere. That was working fabulously. I had, for the most part, more than halved my habit. What can I say. I love me a cigarette. It's relatively harmless compared to some of the other pastimes I've engaged in. It's legal, if nothing else.

So yes, I enjoy a cigarette. But don't just take it from me....

This sums it up so perfectly it almost makes me wish I had a pack.

Things were going just fine, until I went overboard. It's always the way. All's fun until someone loses an eye. After that you have to pay to see it on Main Event.

So just how overboard did I go? Three packs in two days. And some of those were menthols! You know it's a big night when you get roped in to buying your boss a packet of menthols because that's all she smokes, and you come home with them and two other packets. Why I was the one who bought them is a memory gone with that of how I got home.

Two for one drinks on Friday night coupled with a colleagues housewarming the next day kept me consistently sloshed and I pretty much chain-smoked the entire time. By the end of it I was about as attractive as "Two girls, one cup".

I'll have to do something nice for Colin sometime soon. After all, having had his wisdom tooth out, he wasn't drinking or smoking. He became in charge of the important things, like driving, recognising when it's time to depart, and holding my hair back.

Sunday was spent in a mild stupor. Sunday night saw the development of a rather large cold sore, and my temperature rose with the sun on Monday morning. The week was not starting out very well. Tuesday saw me getting no better so it was off to the doctor. The diagnosis: Tonsillitis.

The right tonsil was inflamed and, as my friend Andrew perfectly described, pustulant. Such a lovely word. The theory I'm running with is that I probably smoked so much I burnt the tonsil, which subsequently became infected. It's plausible and more than slightly revolting. Of course, my wearing my body in to the ground like a discarded butt under a stiletto heel and my getting sick may simply be a diabolical coinkidink.

One week down the track, and I'm still not one hundred percent. Although I'm now wondering how much of that is attributed to the tonsillitis and how much goes towards the physical withdrawal from nicotine.

I did find the remnants of a pack in my bag. It contained two perfectly intact cigarettes. I was faced with a quandary. I really wanted a cigarette, despite the fact that my tonsils were about the size of my testicles. It's times like this having no gag reflex comes in handy.

So what did I do? I pulled the filters off, and lit up. Just kidding. I did pull the filters off, but I put the pack in the bin, and then put the bag from the bin in the bigger bin outside. The only thing is, it's not collection day until Tuesday morning, so I may still be tempted.

Enforced abstinence is possibly the kickstart I needed. Though it could be the fever talking, I feel like I've had a bit of a wake up call.

Will keep you posted.

Forgive Me Father For I Have Smoked aka Sorry I've Been Such a Slackarse. (written whilst smoking)

I know I've been pretty poor with the upkeep of this journal. I'm sorry, and I promise to try and do better. This isn't just some passing fad, to fade into obscurity with such documents as the Magna Carta or the Bible.

Speaking of which, aren't we due for a New and Improved Testament? iBible2.0? Maybe the Pope could commission Dan Brown to write it...it'd certainly get a wider reading audience, and would at least be in a language everybody can understand. Dan Brown's books certainly contain all the necessary elements - murder, betrayal, armageddon and a bit of begetting here and there. Ok, in good taste he'll edit out the incest, but stick a few car chases, a gunfight and an intelligence organisation chasing a secret that might change the world into the Bible, and it might actually appeal to the masses. It's all about bringing The Word in to the new millenia.

No, I haven't just finished reading The Lost Symbol.

Ok, I have.

So, the quitting thing. To be perfectly honest, I've been a bit slack on that front as well...which is why, besides my chronic lack of anything resembling time management, I haven't written anything in a while. I didn't want this to simply become a banal confessional in which I list my every nicotine related transgression. There simply isn't that much web space.

So at the moment, I'm in that 'cutting back' stage and while I can go for two to four days at a stretch without a cigarette (my personal best to date is a whole week!), if I do find myself really wanting a cigarette, I have one. I've knocked it back from a pack a day to four or five a day on the days I do smoke, which at the moment is only on days ending in 'y'. Like my drinking.

I suppose you could say I'm now a social smoker. Although since I've had a couple whilst writing this entry and I'm at home by myself, that might not strictly be true - unless you count the fact I'm chatting with friends on Facebook and therefore technically I'm socialising. Semantics? Of course it is.

Justifiable smoking. That's what it's all about. It's harder to prove than justifiable homicide and doesn't really hold up under close scrutiny (or even distant scrutiny for that matter), but the ex-smoker will truly believe it the only course of action. With coffee, after a bad day at the office, whilst drinking, after sex...these are the main situations an ex-smoker will find him- or herself really craving a cigarette, and will normally make themselves believe an indulgence is 'justifiable'. It's almost as much fun as calorie counting. Same principle applies. I've only eaten an apple and three raisins today, so it's ok if I have that slice of Snickers Pie.

It's pure fantasy, but hey - self-delusion is the foundation of many an ego. And since we all know it's fabrication, we can all agree to pretend it's true.

So at the moment, rather than a pack a day, I'm a pack or two a week. It's progress, but I'll be the first to say it's only the beginning.

Ok, Deborah Conway was the first. Sorry, Deb. Love your work.

Bye for now.

Drunk and Disorderly (20 hours since last cigarette)

Ever have one of those nights where you wake up in a complete stranger's front lawn, an unknown substance on your face and your underpants hanging from a nearby tree? Last night wasn't quite one of those, but if it hadn't been thankfully cut short, it certainly had the potential.

One of the barista's at my usual coffee haunt was leaving to pursue a bigger and better in career in Knox, and to help see him off, a bunch of us from various local offices met at the cafe for after-hours beverages. First beer at five o'clock, third beer by six....it was shaping up to be a very interesting evening. I found it amusing that even in a gathering of this nature I could still say I'd slept with two of the attendees, my ex-partner Simon arriving to meet my new partner, Colin.

After several beers I got the itch, as anyone who has given up can probably relate. Drinking and smoking are one of those things that really go hand in hand. Even complete non-smokers will often have 'just that one' with a few drinks under their belt. So I got the itch and it really needed to be scratched. Watching people smoke is a terrible thing and my will is not the strongest to begin with. It was literally useless after a drink. I did something then that I'm not too thrilled about now.

I bought a packet.

What can I say? I'm just not a huge fan of O.P's. For those of you who don't know what an O.P. is - it stands for Other People's. It's the brand that most people quitting will normally move to once they've stopped buying their own cigarettes. Since I knew it was going to be a night where I would most likely want more than one or two, I did the honourable, if not desirable, thing.

And yes, that will help me sleep at night.

The night at the cafe progressed, the crowd dwindled, and we moved from paintball-esque style war with marshmallows, to cheese. Before it could get completely out of hand, we decided to change venue, and after hurriedly cleaning up the worst of the mess (I'm so glad it's not my office), we descended upon La Di Da, a bar cum nightclub on King St.

I'd like to say, in his defence, that what Colin did was not just in the nature of thrift, but of true friendship. People who think that my opinions may be biased on matters where my boyfriend is concerned are probably correct, but can nevertheless suck my noodle.

We'd been there less than fifteen minutes, the first round of drinks had been purchased, and Colin was in the process of adding the vodka he'd managed to smuggle through the door, thus cheating them out of cheating us, when who should walk by, but yes, you guessed it, Security.

At only half past ten at night, we were being escorted off the premises. It was possibly for the best, Colin having to be up for work the following morning, and for me it represents a new record for the time taken to get thrown out of a venue. Personally I prefer getting caught in a compromising position. That's a decent reason for getting kicked out of somewhere - especially when it's from the storeroom.

I had a fantastic night, and was more amused about getting thrown out than anything else.

It wasn't until this morning that I realised that through all that, in about five and a half hours, I had managed to smoke all but a few of the packet I had purchased, thus, in all reality, stepping my progress back to practically nothing. I will therefore be rethinking my strategy - as, considering what condition my throat and lungs were in this morning, binge-smoking is not as much fun as binge-drinking.

All jokes aside, it's time to kick butt.

The Weak-end (24 hours since last cigarette)

So we're at a friend's house-warming in Hopper's Crossing on Saturday, and my house-mate Narelle hands me her cigarette butt and asks me if I'd be a doll and put it out for her. I stared at her as she was holding it out to me, waiting for her to realise who she'd asked. It was like watching the midnight sky for dawn.

The butt was still smoking, and there was enough for just one little drag. You can imagine what went through my head. If you can't, let me ask you something: would you pass a syringe with junk left in it to a injecting drug user in rehab, asking if they'd mind putting the needle in a yellow box, or pass an almost empty pint of beer to someone in AA and ask them to rinse the glass out?

I should hope not.

With a deep, smoke-free breath I managed to put it out, without taking that last drag, and it was another beer and a full twenty minutes later before I sidled up to Narelle and asked for a cigarette.

To be honest, it weren't all that. Not that it didn't stop me from having two more throughout the course of the party, but there wasn't that feeling of 'this is the best cigarette ever'.

Maybe it was because there was a big issue made amongst all those there, most of whom I didn't know, about me quitting, so I felt too self-conscious to truly enjoy the moment. Maybe it was because I'd thought about it too much and built my expectations too high. Maybe it was tainted by feelings of failure and guilt for being weak. Or maybe it's because cigarettes are made up of a mixture of toxic chemicals that when burnt become noxious fumes.

Who knows?

Out of It - Episode I (78 hours since last cigarette)

It's three o'clock in the morning. Day four. I'm wide awake. Every inch of my skin seems to itch. My hands and feet feel numb. No matter which way I toss or turn, I can't get comfortable. I'm tearing my hair out, and three layers of skin have been scratched off my right leg. It's like coming off coke without the paranoia.

My partner lovingly suggested I might like to write for a while.

"They" say the first three days are the worst, that if you can get through that you'll be fine.

I thought the same thing about my recent visit to my immediate family. It frankly isn't true. My younger sister spent most of the time trying to impress me by her ability to hold a drink, even when drunk, her vast knowledge of prescription medication and her penchant for a bit of the green at sparrow's fart. What she doesn't know is that I'd been doing that and more for the last seven years, with substances of far greater interest to law enforcement. It was a sibling rivalry FAIL.

When I wasn't drinking Amanda (and myself) under the table, I spent my time recovering with Trent (one of my three younger brothers), watching so many chick flicks by the end of the week I swear I could lactate. In all fairness to my brother though, I must admit that Pretty Woman is a pretty good hangover cure.

So, the third day of my holiday (and onwards) was spent in a bourbon haze. The third day of my most recent effort to quit was spent in a haze of a different kind.

Could I concentrate? Could I, bollocks. Aside from the blank stare which was my uncontrollable face de jour, I managed to wipe out several people when I fell over as my tram braked, at my stop, thankfully. I don't think that was quite as embarrassing as the woman booked by the plain-clothes ticket inspectors. Oddly, I'm still undecided about how I feel about coming second in the embarrassment stakes. I really don't like losing.

Next, I managed to trip on thin air between my usual coffee haunt and the office. This would have been fine except for the fact that the lid came off my scaldingly hot coffee and a woman with a pram decided to intersect my path right at that moment. You can't write this stuff. Thankfully disaster was averted, but I'd quickly realised that balance was beyond me and I'd perhaps best spend the rest of the day lying down. This thought came to me at 8:30. AM. It was one of those days, but I prefer to have been on a bender as a precursor. At least that way I know I've got no coordination because I exhausted it all pulling really fly moves on the dance floor. Yes. Fly.

I just wanted to go back to bed. Hell, at the time I would've swapped yesterday for another week with the family. My senses have been slightly recovered since.

Continuing on, you'd think if balance was beyond me, I'd be safe sitting in a chair for the day talking on the phone. My seat obtained and balance restored, it appeared that with all the energy it was taking to keep me on the chair I'd lost the power of speech. Oh, it was a great day, ladies and gentlemen.

if I wasn't being dyslexic, I was repeating myself, or stopping mid-sentence and blanking out, only to be brought back to Earth by the very nervously repeated 'Hello" by the little old dear on the other end of the line. Even seated I was a menace, nearly running over my glasses with my office chair. Had I been successful it would have been the second pair to be destroyed in such a fashion. Ask Mother.

I think the fact that while I ostensibly spent the day at work but was really asleep the whole time, may be contributing the fact that I'm here now with my cup of Lady Gray and really cold toes, regaling you with the fact I managed I got through yesterday in an almost perfect imitation of a zombie. The only consolation is that since my physical body remained at work for the required 8 hours, I still earn a full day's pay.

Apparently, so my research tells me, this vagueness is normal and it's possible I may be slightly out of it for the next several weeks. Oh this is going to be fun!

Ok, since it's bound to be commented on, I must confess that even on a normal day I have potential as an occupational health and safety nightmare, and there is no shortage of moments where you just want to shake your head and cringe. Most people find it endearing. I'd probably be the perfect bumbling sidekick except I want to skip straight to the part where I have my own successful spin-off.

Those who really know me are bound to ask how yesterday differs from any other day in which I almost seriously injure myself and/or several innocents. Armed now with the perfect excuse, to them I politely proffer my middle finger.

D.R.T. (60 hours since last cigarette)

"To cease smoking is the easiest thing I ever did. I ought to know because I've done it a thousand times." ~ Mark Twain

In order to properly overcome the cigarette, I considered replacing it with something else. Since I'm already an alcoholic, I can't function without caffeine, and womanising isn't really an option for so many reasons, my first consideration for drug replacement therapy was heroin.

I figured it could be fun while I got over the worst of the cravings. It's not like I have an addictive personality or anything. I simply have a startling array of bad habits I can't seem to live without.

But so far such drastic measures prove unnecessary. I feel ok - apart from a nervous tic in my left eye, and a mildly homicidal feeling whenever a phone rings, which in our call centre is anywhere from 300-600 times a day.

As I considered what I could best substitute cigarettes with, I find myself absently unwrapping a Cherry Ripe from the Salvation Army snack box in our office. This is the third item I've taken from there, the previous two being a Bounty and a Mars Bar, not to mention the entire packet of Fruit Chews I consumed between my mid-morning snack and lunch.

Turns out it is the junk that makes the junkie after all.