Friday, May 30, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Wellbutrin XL
DOB: first synthesized in 1966, patented in 1974, FDA approved in 1985
Occupation: antidepressant, smoking cessation aid, hangover adjuvant
Hometown: GlaxoSmithKline manufacturing facility
Current residence: my medicine cabinet
Douchebaggery: My lame former shrink prescribed me Wellbutrin to aid in my smoking cessation efforts. I've taken Zyban (the name Wellbutrin is marketed under for smoking) in the past, and thought it worked pretty well. Plus, it didn't make me feel numb and emotionless like my brief post-abortion scrip Lexapro did, and I didn't experience any sexual side effects (obviously VERY important to me). Since I've been having trouble staying off the cancer sticks long-term, my shrink decided that long-term Wellbutrin therapy might help with both that and the stress issues which trigger relapses for me.
I don't know if I drank less when I took Zyban in the past or what, but in the past week I have had two completely incapacitating hangovers. Tuesday I couldn't even make it into work because I spent the whole day throwing up, and yesterday morning I spent lots of quality time clutching the toilet as well, and the afternoon experiencing the shakes so seriously that I could barely do any lab work. In both situations, I'd surely had lots to drink the night before, but not so much as to warrant such brutal after-effects. I'm an accomplished alcoholic, and it takes a LOT for me to suffer so tremendously.
Because I don't remember having such problems the last time I took Zyban, it didn't occur to me that Wellbutrin might be the culprit behind this until J-Sexy mentioned it.
"Razzy, you weren't even that drunk last night," she said yesterday as I picked green-faced at my steak at our post-doc's going-away lunch yesterday. "Do you think it might be because of your Wellbutrin?"
"But I took it before and I don't remember that happening," I said.
"Well, who knows? Maybe you drink more now, maybe you're older and it has different effects," she said.
Later she looked it up on the internets, and found some reported cases of people saying that Wellbutrin caused them to have significantly worse hangovers than they had when not taking it. That was all the convincing I needed to blame Wellbutrin for sending me into a miserable reverie of dry heaving after only 6 or 7 beers, which may sound like a lot to some people, but to me sounds like just the right amount for a barbecue on a school night. I'm a champion boozer, so a six pack is no big deal.
I'm going to stay on the Wellbutrin because quitting smoking is absolutely imperative. Smoking has made my childhood asthma return with a vengeance, and is something I can't afford to do health-wise or financially. I've been smoking for almost 20 years, and smoking a pack a day for almost 15 years. This has to stop now, so in my mind Wellbutrin isn't an option. However, I'm completely pissed that this might mean I have to cut down on my drinking too. While that's probably for the best from a hepatic perspective, it's going to really cramp my style to have people think I'm wussing out on my normal rock star-caliber alcoholism. Thanks for ruining my reputation, Wellbutrin.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, drugs, medical drama, smoking
Friday, November 30, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Raunie Amadon
DOB: 1983
Occupation: white trash, loyal smoker, matricidal lunatic
Hometown: Laconia, New Hampshire
Current residence: the Laconia jail
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I don't think I need a man as unstable as Raunie in my life, but I have to shake my head at criminal ridiculousness beyond that which is normal. Raunie decided that he was jonesing for a ciggie butt, and like all men in their early twenties with no job, he went right to his dear old mom to ask for some pocket money to buy a pack (of GPCs or Basics, no doubt). When his mom refused, either because she didn't want to or she couldn't afford a pack, he flew into a rage, grabbed a double-sided axe, and threatened to chop her ass up! That would be no small feat, considering that this is Raunie's mother:
I just can't believe this didn't go down in Puyallup. I bet HotLawyer has had clients who've pulled this sort of nonsense before. He's had clients burn down their common law spouse's Dale Earnhardt shrines for revenge, so I wouldn't be shocked to learn that he's got clients who have threatened murder when deprived of nicotine. As he'd say, that's as American as methamphetamine. However, I bet HotLawyer does a better job of keeping his clients quiet during arraignment. Raunie here thought the charges were bullshit, and had to be dragged from the courtroom screaming AFTER the judge set a low bail at the prosecution's request. Raunie is crazy like a fox. He's going to plead insanity and walk. Trust.
And if you want to watch Raunie's hot ass in action, along with his bold mother's brave waddle from the courthouse, please enjoy the local New Hampshirean news coverage:
Now that's what I call a criminal mastermind.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, HotLawyer, PWT, smoking
Friday, October 05, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Nicoderm CQ
DOB:N/A
Occupation: maintaining my tenuous grasp of sanity
Douchebaggery: It goes without saying that after fifteen years of hardcore smoking (thirteen of smoking a pack a day), I need to quit. I've quit so many times that people roll their eyes when I say I'm quitting because everyone thinks I'll just fail again as always. Some of my friends understand how important this is to me (also probably because they don't want me to get sick or die), but generally people have this attitude that quitting smoking is a fucking joke. Because it's hilarious that I'm woefully addicted to something that will fucking kill me to the point where I'll likely relapse. It's fucking side-splitting that I sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night barely able to breathe, but that I have this burning, intrinsic, insatiable desire to light up almost constantly anyway. And nothing takes the edge off like hearing assholes guffaw about how I'll be back on the P-funks by the end of the week.
Well, this shit is not remotely funny to me, and if I weren't on nicotine replacement therapy while I go through the painful process of weaning myself off, some bitches would be sorely regretting making light of what I consider to be a very grave situation. I'd be either crying or screaming at them, two behaviors of mine that are usually very occasional but nonetheless terrible to behold. In order to not have people think I'm insane as well as humorously prone to relapse, I have to use something to stabilize my mood while I become accustomed to the daily habits of a non-smoker.
Unfortunately, while it keeps me sane and able to juggle the many tasks I am charged with, nicotine patches have a lot of unpleasant side effects. For one thing, they irritate the shit out of my skin. I only wear them on my legs so they won't be visible. Those clear nicotine patches are worthless, because they only provide a window to see how red and inflamed the skin underneath is getting. I guess it's not unforeseeable that nicotine, which is otherwise used as an insecticide and rat poison, would cause some dermatological issues when delivered transdermally, but they don't mention this on the commercials. I get up everyday and apply a thick layer of cortisone cream to my legs, but that doesn't stop the maddening, torturous itching, and I sometimes scratch without thinking about it. As a result, my legs look like I just finished jogging through a blackberry patch.
The other bad thing about the nicotine patch is that it causes me to have extremely vivid dreams. Most of the times these dreams are just weird and not scary, but they are so realistic no matter how farfetched the premise that I wake in a state of distress because I think the dream has actually happened. For example, the other night I dreamed that I hiked cross-country (see...completely absurd) and left Caesar alone on the West Coast. Right before I woke, I was calling and searching frantically for him. I awoke in tears, thinking I had foolishly and irresponsibly lost my beloved Caese Doggy Dogg and hoping against all hope that he'd make like Homeward Bound and somehow find me in New York without getting hit by a car or distracted by a squirrel on the way. I calmed down when Caesar in real life, who was sleeping on my bed with his giant head on one of my feet, woke up, gave a gigantic, loud doggy yawn (dog owners know what kind of noisy yawn I'm talking about), stretched luxuriantly, thumped his massive tail, and went back to sleep.
Last night was a particularly bad night. First I dreamed that my parents were getting a divorce and decided to settle their differences with a game of chicken on tractors a la Footloose, and then were both killed in a fiery head-on John Deere collision with subsequent explosion. I woke up from that one sobbing. When I finally got back to sleep, I then dreamed that I was kicked out of graduate school by a tribunal of my entire department. My PI (advisor/boss/mentor) told me that I was the worst scientist he'd ever been so unlucky as to train, my program director said he was going to go back and retroactively change my all my course grades to Fs and that he wanted to come to my house so he could rip up my master's degrees, and then my department head said it was time to have a "group laugh" at my misfortune. I was then advised that I could keep one master's degree if I agreed to a gangbang with all the faculty members, because being a dirty slut is the only thing I'm good at. When I woke up from that one, I was much more stressed than one should be while catching up on their beauty sleep. After reminding myself that this was just a patch dream dredging up my deeply rooted fear of intellectual failure, and that I should be glad I have such insight into my own psychology, I tried to go back to sleep. My next dream started off with me having hot sex with my old flame the R-uh. So far, so good...until we were attacked by an army of Transformers. The R-uh and I were hiding under the bed from the invading Decepticons, but the R-uh wasn't very good at hiding, apparently, because he kept trying to call his son. Since his son isn't even two, this was probably pretty pointless, but it gave away our position and we were just about to be incinerated when my alarm went off.
I woke up from that one pissed, both because I was annoyed that the R-uh was so lax about taking proper anti-vaporization by invading robots in diguise security measures in my dream and because I felt like I hadn't slept a fucking wink. One more reason not to start smoking, apart from all the diseases, side effects, and financial problems cigarettes cause, is to never have to quit, because as bad as it is, nicotine patches are the best of a bunch of bad options. Zyban keeps you up all night, Nicorette gum makes your mouth burn, and the Commit lozenge tastes like chalk and makes me want to vomit every time I start sucking on one. My best option involves mutilated legs and disturbed, not-restful sleep. Tell me that doesn't blow like a Tijuana hooker.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, smoking, the R-uh
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Catherine Zeta-Jones
DOB: September 26, 1969
Occupation: Actress, spokeswhore, aesthetic glutton
Hometown: Swansea, West Glamorgan, South Wales
Current residence: Los Angeles, California and a palatial estate in the Bahamas
Douchebaggery: Normally, I wouldn't give two shits about CZJ, because I don't watch the types of movies that she's in (romantic comedies, musicals) and if celebrities want to be self-indulgent gluttons, so be it. However, much as I can relate to a chick who hearts 2 fuck, I get really annoyed with bitches who front like they're classier than the damn Queen of England, when they're really the Welsh equivalent of trailer trash.
CZJ is always going to upper crust golf tournaments and gets her hair washed with $400-a-pop Iranian caviar, and generally acting like some sort of asshole from the Second Estate. I wouldn't be surprised if her ass bought a title from some broke-ass ruined noble long parted with the lands in his duchy or whatever so that people can call her "Lady Zeta-Jones Douglas." One time, this humorless snob actually sicced her lawyers on some screenwriters because they were naming a dog after her in the film, and God forbid this haughty, pretentious twat should ever be associated with something so low and coarse as man's best friend. However, despite the trappings of superiority, she demonstrates all the time that you can take the girl out of the council flat but you can't take the council flat out of the girl. Nothing says class and sophistication like getting topless and puffing away on a Marb Light when you're 8 months pregs and bulging like that egg-laying queen thing from Aliens!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, musicals suck, PWT, sluts, smoking
Friday, April 20, 2007
Four-twenty/the Palmetto State
If your day ran anything like Rac's and mine, you received about four hundred and twenty "This is a virtual blunt - puff, puff, give! Pass it on!" text messages, during the course of your workaday dealings.
But I - I was so fortunate as to step outside of the virtual during my first smoke [cigarette] break of the day.
As I cruise out of the elevator, the sunglasses-sportin' guy next to me sees the full sun of spring outside and begins to exclaim "Sunshine!" repeatedly. He gently takes my arm and escorts me out of the door, across the oncoming traffic of the sidewalk, and into the rays of morning sun. We exchange some odd pleasantries, thank Jehosephat it's Spring etc etc, and I spark my Camel Light.
As we gaze at the traffic - scenic New York - we witness a usual scene: the man parallel parking across the street runs into a parked motorcycle and knocks the shit clean over. As he backs up for clear space, he rams into the stationary sedan behind him. Without bothering to inch off of this new crushed car, this motherfucker parks, gets out and tries to right the bike. He picks it up... but fails to grasp the technology of the kickstand. So when he lets go, it crashes to the ground anew, helmet bouncing across the pavement.
He muses but swiftly loses interest, instead turning his eyes to inspect his own semi-SUV for damage.
An onlooking 60-year-old jumps into assist, and tries his own hand at propping up the battered cycle. As this happens, the sun-marveling man next to me asks, "Do you have a lighter that works?" as he tosses away his now-beaten source of fire. Sure, I says, hand him mine, and return my attention quickly to the trainwreck across the avenue, where the struggle continues and new characters lend a hand with the bike.
Again, my would-be smoker-in-arms turns to me and asks, "Is it me?" as he tries in vain to light his own cigarette.
Yes, I says to him, yes it's you. I take the thing back and light it in one flick of the Bic, holding it up for him, when I realize that ain't no cigarette. It's a one-hitter, making this douchebag my new favorite one-hit wonder. I let out a small giggle and he smiles, says in all honesty, "It's 4-20."
"It is, in fact, 4-20, and apparently all day," says me.
He grins, takes a hit, and then begins to shadow-golf as he asks questions about me and my job.
"Um, do you work upstairs?" I ask, not sure what to make of this flirtatious minor felon.
"I do," says guy, and proceeds to tell me about how his work with casinos "on their advertising." Denies ever having sampled their wares, "never gambled, never watched the dancing girls," so on and on. I make glib reply and he says, "You just had to throw that Southern in on the end of it, didn't you?" With this, he removes his sunglasses and looks me dead in the eyes, smiling, whatever. "Where you from?" he asks, gaze steady.
"South Carolina." What part? Columbia.
Now, the standard response for this is, as we all well know: GO COCKS! So that's what I'm waiting for, be it commisseration or lambast to follow.
Not so.
He pulls in close, our faces about six inches apart, and lowers his voice to say, "I wanna Palmetto State you. All... night... long."
And with that, he squeezes my arm, winks, and says, "I will see you later," and heads off the curb to cross the street.
The cycle is upright, the crowd gone, the semu-SUV parked, and 4-20 started in style. Pipes raised to the rest of y'all - may your day include a puff, puff, give of summa that.
But I - I was so fortunate as to step outside of the virtual during my first smoke [cigarette] break of the day.
As I cruise out of the elevator, the sunglasses-sportin' guy next to me sees the full sun of spring outside and begins to exclaim "Sunshine!" repeatedly. He gently takes my arm and escorts me out of the door, across the oncoming traffic of the sidewalk, and into the rays of morning sun. We exchange some odd pleasantries, thank Jehosephat it's Spring etc etc, and I spark my Camel Light.
As we gaze at the traffic - scenic New York - we witness a usual scene: the man parallel parking across the street runs into a parked motorcycle and knocks the shit clean over. As he backs up for clear space, he rams into the stationary sedan behind him. Without bothering to inch off of this new crushed car, this motherfucker parks, gets out and tries to right the bike. He picks it up... but fails to grasp the technology of the kickstand. So when he lets go, it crashes to the ground anew, helmet bouncing across the pavement.
He muses but swiftly loses interest, instead turning his eyes to inspect his own semi-SUV for damage.
An onlooking 60-year-old jumps into assist, and tries his own hand at propping up the battered cycle. As this happens, the sun-marveling man next to me asks, "Do you have a lighter that works?" as he tosses away his now-beaten source of fire. Sure, I says, hand him mine, and return my attention quickly to the trainwreck across the avenue, where the struggle continues and new characters lend a hand with the bike.
Again, my would-be smoker-in-arms turns to me and asks, "Is it me?" as he tries in vain to light his own cigarette.
Yes, I says to him, yes it's you. I take the thing back and light it in one flick of the Bic, holding it up for him, when I realize that ain't no cigarette. It's a one-hitter, making this douchebag my new favorite one-hit wonder. I let out a small giggle and he smiles, says in all honesty, "It's 4-20."
"It is, in fact, 4-20, and apparently all day," says me.
He grins, takes a hit, and then begins to shadow-golf as he asks questions about me and my job.
"Um, do you work upstairs?" I ask, not sure what to make of this flirtatious minor felon.
"I do," says guy, and proceeds to tell me about how his work with casinos "on their advertising." Denies ever having sampled their wares, "never gambled, never watched the dancing girls," so on and on. I make glib reply and he says, "You just had to throw that Southern in on the end of it, didn't you?" With this, he removes his sunglasses and looks me dead in the eyes, smiling, whatever. "Where you from?" he asks, gaze steady.
"South Carolina." What part? Columbia.
Now, the standard response for this is, as we all well know: GO COCKS! So that's what I'm waiting for, be it commisseration or lambast to follow.
Not so.
He pulls in close, our faces about six inches apart, and lowers his voice to say, "I wanna Palmetto State you. All... night... long."
And with that, he squeezes my arm, winks, and says, "I will see you later," and heads off the curb to cross the street.
The cycle is upright, the crowd gone, the semu-SUV parked, and 4-20 started in style. Pipes raised to the rest of y'all - may your day include a puff, puff, give of summa that.
Labels: Dirrty Dirrty, FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, NYC, perversion, smoking
Sunday, March 25, 2007
In my dreams
I wasn't going to get into this, because it seems that every time I discuss my attempts at quitting smoking on this blog, I immediately start smoking again. However, as of now, I've gone since February 21 without so much as taking a drag, and since this quitting effort also represents my Lenten sacrifice, hopefully having my soul on the line will discourage me from falling off the wagon.
People often give me a lot of grief when I quit smoking, and this makes quitting more challenging. "Yeah, right," some will say, because I've tried quitting so many times before and failed. Others will joke about taking bets as to how long it will be before I'm back on the cancer sticks. Still others will get annoyed with me, because they no longer have me as a smoking buddy, and smokers LOVE company. It helps reinforce denial and, in the current climate that demonizes smokers to a certain degree, it makes people feel better about themselves in spite of their smoking. At least, this is how I feel when I'm smoking and one of my butt buddies quits, and the behavior of a few of my friends when I quit validates this. One time I quit smoking and one friend was shocked when I told her she couldn't smoke in my car anymore. "Are you fucking serious?" she asked. I relented because she made such a fuss, and I was smoking again by the end of the night. In 2005, when I fell off the wagon after 9 months of nicotine sobriety, another friend said, "Dude, I'm so glad you're back on the dark side." My judgment gets questioned when I quit, and I get praised when I relapse...how fucked up is that? Nobody cheers when recovering heroin addicts start shooting up again after rehab. I don't appreciate this sort of attitude, because it trivializes what has been a very miserable struggle for me over the past five years (when I really started thinking seriously about going smoke-free) and makes quitting even more difficult for me than it already is.
I smoked my first cigarette at age eleven, and became a regular smoker at 13. I've been smoking cigarettes for over half my life. I am severely addicted, and it is well documented that nicotine is as addictive as heroin or cocaine. I have a lot of smoker friends who refute this. Some of them say things like, "I never smoke at work," or "I only smoke when I'm drinking." Maybe so, but that doesn't mean you're not just as much of a fucking addict as me. Try to NOT smoke when you're drinking sometime. Some of these same friends have been saying that they're going to quit by a certain age or year or major event, and those milestones have come and gone and they're still smoking. In spite of my getting occasionally irritated with my smoker friends, I keep it mostly to myself, because I don't ever want to be the type of nonsmoker that runs around preaching at people. They'll confront this demon when they're good and ready, and it's not my job to be a self-righteous asshole and lecture them all about it. For one thing, it's not like they've never heard that smoking damages your health. For another, you can only quit when you really, REALLY want to, so saying patronizing shit like "don't you know that's bad for you?" or passive-aggressively coughing and/or dramatically fanning smoke away is pointless and fucking rude. I used to smoke like an industrial revolution-era textile mill, so acting all of a sudden like smoking is the most horrible thing a person can do is hypocritical and worthy of scorn. I'm not going to be that party-killing asshole. Unfortunately, though, the close link to smoking and socializing in my group of friends makes hanging out with them particularly challenging sometimes.
I went to see 300 with FalloniusMonk and Rack last week, and after the movie, they both promptly lit right up. As I stated before, I have no interest in lecturing them; FalloniusMonk in particular will have none of that, as she's one of the most defiantly proud smokers I've ever met and often states that it's all good because I'm going to cure cancer (for the record, dude, I've been out of the cancer biz for four years now...so unless they make a cigarette that gives you colds or polio, I can't help with that). She won't for one second tolerate any of that condescending, bossy, you-should-quit bullshit and I wouldn't dare run any of that by her even if I felt inclined to do so. However, it's still fucking hard to stand there and watch them take drag after drag, when I want to take just one SO FUCKING BAD. I tried to hang with them, telling myself that I'll have to get desensitized to seeing other people smoke, but I just couldn't take it. I said, "Okay-dudes-see-ya-later-I-gotta-catch-the-train-bye," and scurried off before I could freak out. I know they understand that it's just what I have to do.
However, while being around my smoking friends can be a challenge for me, NOTHING has been as difficult as sleeping. Yes, that's right...sleeping. It's not that I'm having trouble sleeping so much as I'm having trouble with my dreams. In order to not smoke and function as an only marginally psychopathic crazy bitch while I quit as opposed to a totally emotionally unstable maniac, I am on the patch. The patch is a pain in the ass, because it itches like crazy and falls off in the presence of the Palmer's Cocoa Butter Formula I have to slather on myself by the gallon to mitigate the itching, and because a side-effect is crazy, vivid dreams. In the past I've experienced a variety of disturbing nicotine-induced dreams in which I had dirty but romantic Thorn Birds-style sex with Archbishop of New York Edward Cardinal Egan, got a job teaching biology at Smith (about as close to hell as I can imagine), was accosted by Chris Hansen for internet perversion, married my high school boyfriend (sorry, THAT'S actually about as close to hell as I can imagine), was violently attacked by my lab mice, and ate my brother's dog. However, the most recurrent disturbing dreams I have are of me smoking. Last night I dreamt I was at my parent's house and their fridge was full of half-opened Parliament Light packs. I kept asking my mom to throw them away because they were so tempting, and she said she was keeping them fresh for someone else who might want them since I didn't need them anymore. I was begging her to throw them away and she was telling me not to be so wasteful. Then I smoked one, my mother started yelling at me that I was weak and pathetic, and I woke up.
This is about the twentieth dream I've had since quitting about smoking, and these dreams are so vivid, that I wake up wracked with guilt for relapsing once again. It's not that these dreams are otherwise believable; the notions that my mother's frugality would extend to stocking the fridge with P-Funks or that she would ever under any circumstances scream at me that I'm weak and pathetic are ridiculous, but the smoking part feels SO REAL. I really believe that I smoked upon awakening. Eventually I become more fully alert and realize that I only cheated in my dreams, and I'm still right with Jesus as far as my Lenten vow is concerned, but this is driving me crazy. I can learn to deal with being around smokers, because it's something I'm going to have to learn to cope with if I'm going to stay smoke-free and keep 90% of my friends (and I love them dearly whether they smoke or not, so that's not even an option), but being tormented with relapse every night is getting to be a bit much. I'd frankly rather live on Elm Street and have Freddy chasing me around every night in my subconscious than be confronted with pack after shiteous pack of Parliaments. Christ, does this ever get any easier???
People often give me a lot of grief when I quit smoking, and this makes quitting more challenging. "Yeah, right," some will say, because I've tried quitting so many times before and failed. Others will joke about taking bets as to how long it will be before I'm back on the cancer sticks. Still others will get annoyed with me, because they no longer have me as a smoking buddy, and smokers LOVE company. It helps reinforce denial and, in the current climate that demonizes smokers to a certain degree, it makes people feel better about themselves in spite of their smoking. At least, this is how I feel when I'm smoking and one of my butt buddies quits, and the behavior of a few of my friends when I quit validates this. One time I quit smoking and one friend was shocked when I told her she couldn't smoke in my car anymore. "Are you fucking serious?" she asked. I relented because she made such a fuss, and I was smoking again by the end of the night. In 2005, when I fell off the wagon after 9 months of nicotine sobriety, another friend said, "Dude, I'm so glad you're back on the dark side." My judgment gets questioned when I quit, and I get praised when I relapse...how fucked up is that? Nobody cheers when recovering heroin addicts start shooting up again after rehab. I don't appreciate this sort of attitude, because it trivializes what has been a very miserable struggle for me over the past five years (when I really started thinking seriously about going smoke-free) and makes quitting even more difficult for me than it already is.
I smoked my first cigarette at age eleven, and became a regular smoker at 13. I've been smoking cigarettes for over half my life. I am severely addicted, and it is well documented that nicotine is as addictive as heroin or cocaine. I have a lot of smoker friends who refute this. Some of them say things like, "I never smoke at work," or "I only smoke when I'm drinking." Maybe so, but that doesn't mean you're not just as much of a fucking addict as me. Try to NOT smoke when you're drinking sometime. Some of these same friends have been saying that they're going to quit by a certain age or year or major event, and those milestones have come and gone and they're still smoking. In spite of my getting occasionally irritated with my smoker friends, I keep it mostly to myself, because I don't ever want to be the type of nonsmoker that runs around preaching at people. They'll confront this demon when they're good and ready, and it's not my job to be a self-righteous asshole and lecture them all about it. For one thing, it's not like they've never heard that smoking damages your health. For another, you can only quit when you really, REALLY want to, so saying patronizing shit like "don't you know that's bad for you?" or passive-aggressively coughing and/or dramatically fanning smoke away is pointless and fucking rude. I used to smoke like an industrial revolution-era textile mill, so acting all of a sudden like smoking is the most horrible thing a person can do is hypocritical and worthy of scorn. I'm not going to be that party-killing asshole. Unfortunately, though, the close link to smoking and socializing in my group of friends makes hanging out with them particularly challenging sometimes.
I went to see 300 with FalloniusMonk and Rack last week, and after the movie, they both promptly lit right up. As I stated before, I have no interest in lecturing them; FalloniusMonk in particular will have none of that, as she's one of the most defiantly proud smokers I've ever met and often states that it's all good because I'm going to cure cancer (for the record, dude, I've been out of the cancer biz for four years now...so unless they make a cigarette that gives you colds or polio, I can't help with that). She won't for one second tolerate any of that condescending, bossy, you-should-quit bullshit and I wouldn't dare run any of that by her even if I felt inclined to do so. However, it's still fucking hard to stand there and watch them take drag after drag, when I want to take just one SO FUCKING BAD. I tried to hang with them, telling myself that I'll have to get desensitized to seeing other people smoke, but I just couldn't take it. I said, "Okay-dudes-see-ya-later-I-gotta-catch-the-train-bye," and scurried off before I could freak out. I know they understand that it's just what I have to do.
However, while being around my smoking friends can be a challenge for me, NOTHING has been as difficult as sleeping. Yes, that's right...sleeping. It's not that I'm having trouble sleeping so much as I'm having trouble with my dreams. In order to not smoke and function as an only marginally psychopathic crazy bitch while I quit as opposed to a totally emotionally unstable maniac, I am on the patch. The patch is a pain in the ass, because it itches like crazy and falls off in the presence of the Palmer's Cocoa Butter Formula I have to slather on myself by the gallon to mitigate the itching, and because a side-effect is crazy, vivid dreams. In the past I've experienced a variety of disturbing nicotine-induced dreams in which I had dirty but romantic Thorn Birds-style sex with Archbishop of New York Edward Cardinal Egan, got a job teaching biology at Smith (about as close to hell as I can imagine), was accosted by Chris Hansen for internet perversion, married my high school boyfriend (sorry, THAT'S actually about as close to hell as I can imagine), was violently attacked by my lab mice, and ate my brother's dog. However, the most recurrent disturbing dreams I have are of me smoking. Last night I dreamt I was at my parent's house and their fridge was full of half-opened Parliament Light packs. I kept asking my mom to throw them away because they were so tempting, and she said she was keeping them fresh for someone else who might want them since I didn't need them anymore. I was begging her to throw them away and she was telling me not to be so wasteful. Then I smoked one, my mother started yelling at me that I was weak and pathetic, and I woke up.
This is about the twentieth dream I've had since quitting about smoking, and these dreams are so vivid, that I wake up wracked with guilt for relapsing once again. It's not that these dreams are otherwise believable; the notions that my mother's frugality would extend to stocking the fridge with P-Funks or that she would ever under any circumstances scream at me that I'm weak and pathetic are ridiculous, but the smoking part feels SO REAL. I really believe that I smoked upon awakening. Eventually I become more fully alert and realize that I only cheated in my dreams, and I'm still right with Jesus as far as my Lenten vow is concerned, but this is driving me crazy. I can learn to deal with being around smokers, because it's something I'm going to have to learn to cope with if I'm going to stay smoke-free and keep 90% of my friends (and I love them dearly whether they smoke or not, so that's not even an option), but being tormented with relapse every night is getting to be a bit much. I'd frankly rather live on Elm Street and have Freddy chasing me around every night in my subconscious than be confronted with pack after shiteous pack of Parliaments. Christ, does this ever get any easier???
Labels: defiance, FalloniusMonk, Razzification, smoking
Saturday, December 30, 2006
2006: The Year of the Slut
It's that time again: the year in review. Here are the top hits that I knew about for the year - lovingly dubbed "The Year of the Slut" by my buddy Garbo. NEW YEAR'S EVE: We rang it in with more than good cheer. It's Rack's birthday, assholes, so the New Year is the least important of the relevant events. There were spankings from a Bettie Page look-alike, potfulls of thrice-spiked cider, a Harppon-employee (ergo free beer for three solid days), make-out sessions on linoleum floors, probably table-dances (can't remember), and more drastic instances of misbehavior. Well worth the drive and looking forward to the sequel tonight.
THE FIFA WORLD CUP: If you forget about the TOTAL shock of its outcome, the raucous good times of floating boozily through Irish bars in Manhattan, and the really remarkable number of hookups that invariably accompany this sort of endless social event, the title goes to Zinedine-I'm'a-fuck-your-face-up-Zidane. I was so drunk for a month that I couldn't feel my face when he cracked skull on the field, but I sure felt my jaw drop. Right into my next beer.
THE O.J. BOOK: Don't matter if Murdock prints it or not, which is great because he won't. But what FUCKING SHIT WAS THAT. Just when we thought that this pivotal post-Rodney King, pre-Dialo racial moment couldn't get any weirder, we are reminded why models and football players are not allowed to speak.
SADDAM HUSSEIN: [...]
AMERICA VOTES: The Democrats swept the nation in the 2006 elections. The outcomes hangs in the balance to see what can get done in this political gridlock, as our Commandante in Chief struggles with English and leadership, and the threat of any level of disaster to a Democratic Senator can upset the balance, but hell - the victory parties have been unrivaled.
TEJ OFFENSIVE: An evil plot to silence Razzy is foiled. Still ugly. But foiled. NOICE!
PLUTO DEMOTED: After millienia of devoted service, Pluto is kicked back down the cosmic ladder to middle management. No gold-plated watch. Just the outer ranks of outerspace. Qouth my father, "It throughs astrology into a tailspin." All I wanna know is, who's fucking head can I cut off for this? MY SALARY: In contrast to Pluto's diminished status, my shit hit a seismic spike. make no bones about it: it pays to be experiential. Fingers crossed for my bonus, when I can finally silence those rat bastard credit cards.
NORTH KOREA'S NUKES: Bless.
MY MOM IS DONE WITH MENOPAUSE: Score!
NASA: Three cheers for these poor sons of bitches for getting their shit together. They saved their funding, they pulled off three launches and they're thinking big on four for next year, they got shit on Mars, and they actually studied their data to apply it to the Orion - shit is rosy for America in SPACE Space space. Here's to you, JFK. TEACHER'S HIGH SCHOOL REUNION: My buddies Teach and Tubby hit their South Kakalaka high school reunion where the Most Popular Guy in their class, piss drunk and hard up for cash, tried to sell Tubby a dime bag. Almost simultaneously, M.P.G.'s remarkably drunker girlfriend made a confession to Teach that she and M.P.G. had met on MySpace, and requested discretion. Both bits of news hit the floor about eight minutes later. Luckily, M.P.G. was involved in a fist fight at the punch table for other reasons, and was forcibly ejected by security.
PLASTIC SURGERY: That is, my grandmother, at 80, has decided to close the door on face lifts.
MICROSOFT VISTA: At long fucking last, Gates takes a cue from Apple. If it ever comes out, we'll maybe have computers we can use. After all, the only criticism comes from Forbes.com is that it's not "people-ready". Quote they, "The new system is bloated and overly complex. Why wait?"
JACK BAUER: First of all, Keifer Southerland's career is officially saved. After Flatliners, we weren't sure, but things are on the up and up for the son of the Donald.
STEP DOWN: Lance Armstrong abdicates. David Beckham steps aside. Rumsfeld is out. But Jigger's back, bitches, and that's all that matters.
NATURAL DISASTER: 2004 gave us the Thai tsunami. 2005 was back with a vengeance with hurricanes so extraordinary, Katrina included, that we ran out of letters and had to start with the Greek alphabet. Fingers crossed that we make it through the next seven hours.
SNAKES ON A PLANE: Best line ever, forgive me if I paraphrase, the Samuel L. wrach delievred: "Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!" I mean, after holiday travel, who isn't?
SMOKING GUN: Paris announces it will shortly ban smoking. I can't hear you.
TOM CRUISE: L. Ron strikes again. But on Oprah this time.
JACK PALANCE & GERALD FORD: Rest your souls, gents.
WATCH OUT, WILT CHAMBERLAIN: Cuz Kobe Bryant is the close saludatorian on all your titles, bro. But in this instance, I'm only talking about the game against the Raptors.
PAUL McCARTNEY: He gets that one-legged hooker to stand down, and also Rack and I stood within eight feet of him at JFK. He fucking smiled at her. Eat that, Beatle lovers. And also, no more Beatles died this year. With any luck, Death will focus on the Bay City Rollers for a while.
K-FED-ED: I need not say more. Free at last, Miss Britney, to reclaim your battered rock stardom.
LOYD IS GONE: With his charges mostly resolved, the renovations mostly done, and his rent mostly paid, Loyd is no longer employed as the Schnieder of the Blythewood Fallon household. No more advances on the paycheck, no more half-assed networking attempts of the dental laboratory technology, and no more visits for fucking nothing at 7 am. My parents fired his moochin ass, Pax Fallonia regained. Fuck that last unhung door.
BLYTHEWOOD, S.C.: Maybe y'all 'on'y know 'bout Doko, but Blythewood is on the climbin track this year. There are now five - count them, five - stoplights in my one-stoplight town. Four gas stations, three hotels, two grocery stores, partridge and shit, and a high school. And not just any high shcool. in its first year out of the gate, the highly anticipated Blythewood Bengals spank fat AAA-ass to take the state title in their first season. First of all, this just don't happen. And second of all - this just don't happen. Let's hear it for country ass in motion. 
JACK SPARROW: He lives, and so does Keith Richards, steadily enough to pop up in the next Pirates of the Caribbean. This is a monumentous occasion, and let us give thanks for both.
THE DA VINCI CODE: The American public still spends money on Tom Hanks. Cuz after all, life is a box of chocolates. And that's what Ron Howard gives his boyfriend.
BORAT: Ali G's years of underground genius finally make him some fucking money. High five. PINK TUTU: That is, my mom suggested that I wear one while I do dishes. This may sound insane to some of you, but the reality is that, had you placed a bet ten years ago as to which one I do first, you'd'a a fifty-chance of winning. Now that I support myself, I do, on occasion, wash dishes, so she was just testing the limits. Rest assured, though, that if your bet was on dishes, you won.
THE REAL WORLD: My sister is a college ga-gaduala, got a real job, and has a really good relationship in the works. And she has the CUTEST DOG. Gold medal for my bitch.
PLAYING THE FIELD: The Duke Lacrosse team is back. Into what, you ask? Remains to be seen.
PARIS HILTON: Still fucking famous, someone help me understand.
MICHAEL RICHARDS: Fuck bird flu. This erstwhile semi-celebrity gets foot-in-mouth disease by bringing back that old Ku Klux favorite joke, LYNCHING BLACK PEOPLE. Lest we think En Vogue's "Colorblind" made headway, beware ye hostile stand-ups and Seinfield hasbeens.
MEL GIBSON LEARNS TO DRIVE SLOWER: The miracle is, Russell Crowe's been off the grid for too long for comfort - watch out, 2K7.
REHAB: Robin Williams and Keith Urban. Their tell-all novel will def sell out.
MARGARET SANGER: The morning after pill cracks the glass ceiling. OU812 and RU486 step aside for drugs and concepts with names.
LOCAL DOG DISCOVERS ASPIRIN: As New York canines make confessions to their therapists, South Carolina native pooch Toby renews his own lease on life with aspirin for his arthritis, and gets back to his bee-biting, possum-cornering, car barking, ear scratching, and Alpo at seven[-ish].
TORINO: The Flying Tomato takes all.
MARDI GRAS: It happened, motherfuckers. And so did the Jazz Festival. Big fuck you, Mother Nature. Our boozing ceases not.
MR. T.: Sheds chains and still has TV career. I pity the naysayin' fool.
GET YOUR GAME ON: X-box 360 or Nintendo Wii, that is - either way, these gadgets had folks in line like it was a Star Wars premier - and fortunately, with better execution.
RESPITE OF THE SITH: Thanks be to the benevolence of Baby Jesus, George Lucas remained silent on the scriptwriting front, and our minds were able to rest from bungled romantic space operas. The capacity of Americans to show affection and have feelings dramatically rises. HD-DVD VERSUS BLU-RAY: Either begins or continues "taking digital perfection to a higher level."
NEW MEXICO: Chosen for Branson's Virgin Galactic SPACE Space space flight landing dock. Just a $20K deposit and you too can be on the waiting list to look at a lot of stars and then a whole lot of fucking sand. So spake my hero Han Solo, "This ain't like dustin' crops, boy. "
MADONNA REINSTATES SLAVE TRADE: But the kid will invariably get an awesome track suit from H&M in exchange for his daddy.
THE BIG RED HOOTER: Mal discovers the cocktail of the year, from across the great waters. Two shots tequila, one shot amaretto, fill the shit with pineapple juice and splash in some grenadine. Drunk dial me after three. I FOLD: After a decade of arbitrary resistance, I finally agree to watch Buffy: The Vampire Slayer with my family. My sister doesn't home and fucks up the plan, but the concession stands.
NATIVITY: The Greatest Story Ever Told. Told again. And again. And again. You guys ever heard of this guy, Jesus? Wicked plot. CANCER: Not cured. Again. Raz, you're still up.
BRANGELINA: Still being seen. Again. Good news is, whatever Brad's doing has put an end to her making out with her brother on-screen.
ON HUMAN BOND-AGE: Daniel Craig returns for a James Bond renewal in Casino Royale. He can't drive stick, he's afraid of water, and hates guns just like what'sit in Layer Cake, but goddamnit he's hot, and Sean Connery didn't protest, so it's all good. At least Bond lives on.
JONBENET RAMSEY: Still dead. But we got a revisitation with the possibility that her killer had finally been located. Since it turned out to be shoite, we have great hopes for more thrilling updates in 2007. And by the way, she's buried in the same graveyard as my old Georgia family.Labels: alcoholism, assholes, Britney Spears, crime and punishment, Dumb Smith bitches, FalloniusMonk, Johnny Depp, Kevin Federline, movies, Mr. T, Razzy Haters, smoking, tragedy
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
99 Smoking Theses.
I love to smoke. I smoke in the morning after heavy drinking. I smoke at work - I mean, downstairs on the street. (Sorry, Southern Belles. No lady am I.) In fact, I smoke so much that my department comes down to review their assignments with me while I puff a fuckin butt - we call it the first floor conference room. It's where I do my best work.
I book smoking rooms when I travel, I seek out smoking bars, I smoke during the Yankee winter and I smoke in my house. I've even smoked in the shower, just to know if it was worth it. It's not really, just for the record, but it's worth a shot. Edifying. To drive this home: I keep only a few things in the freezer. A humble amount of emergency cash. A copy of my passport. And a carton of cigarettes. Because that's the last thing to go when your house burns down. Got it?
But I got a few issues to address. You've heard them before from smokers. But allow me to repeat ourselves, as the rest of the world apparently isn't listening. These are for your own good - it's about etiquette, fuckwad. Untold numbers of valid antismoking arguments exist, yes, yes - and you ruin your lame ass point by not acknowledging a few essential rules about life, others, and free American goddamn will. So tune in and maybe I'll entertain your tired point before I'm oxygen-machine bound.
Do not tell me I shouldn't smoke because it's bad for my health. I did not just fall out of a high tree branch. I was not recently transported here from the not-planet Pluto. We've all known for well over a year now that smoking causes cancer. But heads up, dickweed. So does cell phone conversation. Microwaves. McDonald's & Twinkies. That ridiculous SUV you drive. Air conditioning. Apparently, they conjecture that sleeping with the lights on gives cancer to women. The short reality is that e'rybody in tha club gon' gettin cancer, so don't look at me. Look at Raz. She's gonna cure the shit. So remember that, and when it's time, you better vote for her. And you best believe I'll be smoking when I accept the hoped-for offer to be her President of Vice.
Do not anticipate that I will move my cigarette when you shove past me on the street. Your coat is on fire because you are dumb. Not my fault that you choose to walk into open flames. Yours, son. All yours.
Do not quit smoking and the bum cigarettes from all of your friends. I had to sell an ovary to afford this habit, so hop off my reproduction system, pony up and purchase your own shit. I don't mind handing out party favors, to strangers or loved ones alike. But be honest with yourself. If you want to quit smoking, step one is not to stop buying cigarettes. It's to quit using them. Word?
DO NOT FAN YOUR NOSE WHEN YOU WALK BY ME ON THE STREET. You deserve to be burned. I don't smack you with a tire iron when I see your fat ass chunks through your too-tight pants, or clap a hand over each ear when you open your stupid mouth to voice your version of an opinion. You choose to do that shit, and it damages my health. I would gladly go back inside and smoke, just to clear that up, if you hadn't voted to send me out on the street. So check yourself before I wreck yourself. Cuz I'm going nowhere.
So Denis Leary, I feel you, and I raise my smoldering ash in your name. And everybody else, nail that shit to your door, 'fore I burn it in.
I book smoking rooms when I travel, I seek out smoking bars, I smoke during the Yankee winter and I smoke in my house. I've even smoked in the shower, just to know if it was worth it. It's not really, just for the record, but it's worth a shot. Edifying. To drive this home: I keep only a few things in the freezer. A humble amount of emergency cash. A copy of my passport. And a carton of cigarettes. Because that's the last thing to go when your house burns down. Got it?
But I got a few issues to address. You've heard them before from smokers. But allow me to repeat ourselves, as the rest of the world apparently isn't listening. These are for your own good - it's about etiquette, fuckwad. Untold numbers of valid antismoking arguments exist, yes, yes - and you ruin your lame ass point by not acknowledging a few essential rules about life, others, and free American goddamn will. So tune in and maybe I'll entertain your tired point before I'm oxygen-machine bound.
Do not tell me I shouldn't smoke because it's bad for my health. I did not just fall out of a high tree branch. I was not recently transported here from the not-planet Pluto. We've all known for well over a year now that smoking causes cancer. But heads up, dickweed. So does cell phone conversation. Microwaves. McDonald's & Twinkies. That ridiculous SUV you drive. Air conditioning. Apparently, they conjecture that sleeping with the lights on gives cancer to women. The short reality is that e'rybody in tha club gon' gettin cancer, so don't look at me. Look at Raz. She's gonna cure the shit. So remember that, and when it's time, you better vote for her. And you best believe I'll be smoking when I accept the hoped-for offer to be her President of Vice.
Do not anticipate that I will move my cigarette when you shove past me on the street. Your coat is on fire because you are dumb. Not my fault that you choose to walk into open flames. Yours, son. All yours.
Do not quit smoking and the bum cigarettes from all of your friends. I had to sell an ovary to afford this habit, so hop off my reproduction system, pony up and purchase your own shit. I don't mind handing out party favors, to strangers or loved ones alike. But be honest with yourself. If you want to quit smoking, step one is not to stop buying cigarettes. It's to quit using them. Word?
DO NOT FAN YOUR NOSE WHEN YOU WALK BY ME ON THE STREET. You deserve to be burned. I don't smack you with a tire iron when I see your fat ass chunks through your too-tight pants, or clap a hand over each ear when you open your stupid mouth to voice your version of an opinion. You choose to do that shit, and it damages my health. I would gladly go back inside and smoke, just to clear that up, if you hadn't voted to send me out on the street. So check yourself before I wreck yourself. Cuz I'm going nowhere.
So Denis Leary, I feel you, and I raise my smoldering ash in your name. And everybody else, nail that shit to your door, 'fore I burn it in.
Labels: defiance, ranting, smoking
Saturday, October 14, 2006
The latest item on my "to vanquish" list
Once again, I'm giving non-smoking a go for about the hundredth time. I HATE quitting smoking. I'm so sick of doing it: going through the suffering and misery of withdrawal only to have a couple drinks, fire up a Parliament Light, berate myself for failing, and wind up back to my pack-a-day old ways.
Therefore, in order to prevent relapse history from repeating itself, I need to take drastic measures. Since merely mentally committing to quitting smoking clearly isn't enough to keep me off the coffin nails, I have to do something that absolutely, completely,unequivocally prohibits me from smoking. It has to be something that I could never do while smoking at all, and it has to take up at least a year. I was trying to think of different things that are very athletic and aerobic, and require endurance beyond that of a heavy smoker's. The other day on the subway, I saw an ad, and the answer was immediately clear to me. Next year, I am going to compete in this:
I can almost hear all the people who know me laughing scornfully, saying "sha right, Razzy will never be able to quit smoking, much less quit smoking and run 26.2 fucking miles." It's true that I'm very lazy, and I've been a smoker since the tender age of 13, and both those facts support a negative outlook for me successfully running this entire marathon. I think, however, that this is an excellent opportunity to prove to myself and everybody else that I can actually accomplish major feats of athleticism if I am determined enough. Also, my parents are on board, and they are buying me a new pair of fly running shoes in a show of support. And I love shoes, betch, so this should at least motivate me enough to get started. I have enlisted the assistance of the able distance runner KatieScarlett, who is taking me to the best running shoe store in Lesbianville, Brooklyn.
There's another reason why I'm going to run a marathon, and that is because I hate them. I say fuck marathons, and fuck the ancient battle versus the Persians that happened there, too. Memo to Greece: your poems, myths, tragedies, democracy, thinkers, feta cheese, baklava, and word origins are cool and all, but YOUR TECHNOLOGY SUCKED. That's why I got pissed during the movie Troy, because it was all shitty ancient Greek military technology without any gods intervening. Furthermore, the fact that Greece's cultural dominance in the ancient world relies entirely on mythic heroes and the exploitation of Olympian family drama is because your boats and weapons were so fucking crappy in the first place. Marathons are a big part of ancient Greek tradition, and since they aren't epic stories by Homer or badass albeit mythologically inaccurate movies starring Harry Hamlin as Perseus, I can't hold my head up high without definitively kicking some 26.2 mile SISSY MARATHON ASS.
I have 13 months to prepare for this, and in order to get into the marathon, I have to qualify by running in 9 different New York Road Runner races. Well, I don't have to do this, because there is a lottery for people who don't; however, I've never been particularly lucky, and apparently the lottery has steep odds because of the surprisingly huge number of people who for some reason want to punish themselves in this manner. The way I see it, if I qualify by running 9 races alone, it will be pretty damn encouraging that in fact I would be capable of actually sticking it to the ancient Greeks and pulling off an entire full-length marathon.
Just looking at the course makes me want to throw up. Somehow I'll have to get my ass all the way out to Staten Island to start, and then run all the way back to Manhattan through Brooklyn and Queens with a quick detour through the Bronx. This is an absolutely terrifying prospect:
However, if I can do this, then there is NOTHING I can't do, because not only will I have smote the marathon's ruin upon the proverbial mountainside, but I will have accomplished the far more difficult trial of quitting smoking. Achievement here will spur me on to accomplish greater goals, like finally graduating and getting the hell out of grad school. After that, it's straight up world domination time. Go Razzy!
Therefore, in order to prevent relapse history from repeating itself, I need to take drastic measures. Since merely mentally committing to quitting smoking clearly isn't enough to keep me off the coffin nails, I have to do something that absolutely, completely,unequivocally prohibits me from smoking. It has to be something that I could never do while smoking at all, and it has to take up at least a year. I was trying to think of different things that are very athletic and aerobic, and require endurance beyond that of a heavy smoker's. The other day on the subway, I saw an ad, and the answer was immediately clear to me. Next year, I am going to compete in this:
I can almost hear all the people who know me laughing scornfully, saying "sha right, Razzy will never be able to quit smoking, much less quit smoking and run 26.2 fucking miles." It's true that I'm very lazy, and I've been a smoker since the tender age of 13, and both those facts support a negative outlook for me successfully running this entire marathon. I think, however, that this is an excellent opportunity to prove to myself and everybody else that I can actually accomplish major feats of athleticism if I am determined enough. Also, my parents are on board, and they are buying me a new pair of fly running shoes in a show of support. And I love shoes, betch, so this should at least motivate me enough to get started. I have enlisted the assistance of the able distance runner KatieScarlett, who is taking me to the best running shoe store in Lesbianville, Brooklyn.
There's another reason why I'm going to run a marathon, and that is because I hate them. I say fuck marathons, and fuck the ancient battle versus the Persians that happened there, too. Memo to Greece: your poems, myths, tragedies, democracy, thinkers, feta cheese, baklava, and word origins are cool and all, but YOUR TECHNOLOGY SUCKED. That's why I got pissed during the movie Troy, because it was all shitty ancient Greek military technology without any gods intervening. Furthermore, the fact that Greece's cultural dominance in the ancient world relies entirely on mythic heroes and the exploitation of Olympian family drama is because your boats and weapons were so fucking crappy in the first place. Marathons are a big part of ancient Greek tradition, and since they aren't epic stories by Homer or badass albeit mythologically inaccurate movies starring Harry Hamlin as Perseus, I can't hold my head up high without definitively kicking some 26.2 mile SISSY MARATHON ASS.
I have 13 months to prepare for this, and in order to get into the marathon, I have to qualify by running in 9 different New York Road Runner races. Well, I don't have to do this, because there is a lottery for people who don't; however, I've never been particularly lucky, and apparently the lottery has steep odds because of the surprisingly huge number of people who for some reason want to punish themselves in this manner. The way I see it, if I qualify by running 9 races alone, it will be pretty damn encouraging that in fact I would be capable of actually sticking it to the ancient Greeks and pulling off an entire full-length marathon.
Just looking at the course makes me want to throw up. Somehow I'll have to get my ass all the way out to Staten Island to start, and then run all the way back to Manhattan through Brooklyn and Queens with a quick detour through the Bronx. This is an absolutely terrifying prospect:
However, if I can do this, then there is NOTHING I can't do, because not only will I have smote the marathon's ruin upon the proverbial mountainside, but I will have accomplished the far more difficult trial of quitting smoking. Achievement here will spur me on to accomplish greater goals, like finally graduating and getting the hell out of grad school. After that, it's straight up world domination time. Go Razzy!
Labels: defiance, exercise drama, smoking
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