Aye. So. I quit smoking, for the third time, at new year. Last snout was around 9am on the first, as I poured myself from a flat just off QMD. I was skillfully managing my very precarious hangover on the 1st, with the judicious use of sleep and water, so that was fine. The 2nd was spent in much the same way, but with the addition of food, so all good there. Today was A1. Bit of shopping, tidied the flat. No ill effects.
Now it's 3am. And I'm CLIMBING THE FUCKING WALLS.
This may be my own fault.
I decided it would be a good idea to ignore the usual advice of avoiding boredom and alcohol while quitting smoking. I did this by sitting in front of the TV with a 6 deck of Stella on a Saturday night. Do it now and get it over with, I thought - completely clobber the pain barrier on the worst withdrawal day of the lot. Unfortunately, I sorely underestimated the level of my nicotine addiction.
The muscles in my legs haven't relaxed for the past two hours. My jaw's clenched like a mid-nineties raver who's run out of chewing gum. Too tired to do anything useful, too wired to sleep.
I watched Trainspotting to put my low level addiction into perspective, but ended up wanting to kick Renton's head in for moaning about something as clearly insignificant as a simple skag habit. Dead babies crawling the ceiling? Piece of piss. Better full scale audio-visual hallucination than not smoking for 72 hours.
This should be about as bad as it gets, though. Hopefully I've engineered the worst possible conditions for withdrawl, and it's all gravy after this. Time for another beer. Dig in a little deeper. Feel the rage.
