Frustrated by the fact my site still wasn't finished, that I was, in fact, getting blocked by my mental insistence that it be Perfect before I put it up, I left work and made my way to the Shanghai Cowgirl, in hopes of getting some writing done.
More reading than writing was the result, and by the time I left I was jonesing. I contemplated the magazine shop next door, thought of standing supplicant at the counter and ordering a pack of smokes.
I was saved by the sight of a streetcar not far off and instead crossed to the island to await its arrival.
But the Urge to Smoke only grew stronger as we travelled west. I exited at Triller and forced myself to walk home to the apartment. Inside, I decided to rent a movie (The Presidents of the United States, with James Garner and Jack Lemmon; despite the potentially charming cast, stay away! It's awful). I wandered aisles until the aforementioned video caught my eye, then stepped back out into the night.
I started home, got halfway, then retraced my steps, passed the video store and entered the mis-named, 24-hour, Sak's Fine Foods. Ordered a pack of small, Player's Light Regular. No way I wanted my regular shop to gloat over my fall.
And I snuck home, opened my office window, and proceded to smoke my brains out. "I won't tell anyone," I told myself desperately. "I'll just lie and, therefore, it won't have happened. It won't have happened. It won't have happened ..."
Thursday saw me having a quick pint with Laura, though.
"How's the not-smoking going?" she asked, and I had to admit the truth. She laughed at my description of sneaking around on my regular corner store and offered supportive agreement that a relapse doesn't necessitate doing so again.
But I have. Another pack after banging on Steve's door and bar-hopping around Parkdale on Friday night. And still another fucking pack today.
But that's it, people. I'm done. My chest hurts when I breathe deep and self-loathing fills my soul, despite the fact the new version of my site is (more or less) ready for public approbation (or not, as the case may be).
I'm not a smoker again and I won't take down the quit-meter - but if you're neurotic enough to care about strict accuracy, subtract 3 packs from the total not smoked.