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12:35 p.m. - 2010-12-13
Write Place, Wrong Place

Trying to write in the dining room. A most difficult thing to do. Okay, I'm not trying to type with boxing gloves on or behind my back looking in a mirror held over my shoulder, but writing in the dining room means a) I'm using the laptop and I'm still not very well acquainted with it, b) I am not in My Chair, my beloved beaten-down wreck of a chair and honestly I can count on two hands the times I've tried to write on a machine that wasn't parked in front of my chair- the connection between comfy ass and functioning fingers is mystical and real. But mostly, c) writing in the dining room means I am not smoking. And so I have not for over 48 hours now.

NO! I am not quitting, I am trying to shake this darned flu. Yesterday I stayed out of my office entirely so I wouldn't be tempted. Today my frustration quotient over feeling like crap, being without my cigs, AND not having my computer has driven me to do the one thing I could do something about- namely using my laptop in a meaningful way. So I've been setting up my accounts and trying to remember all my damn passwords and dealing with the fright and discomfort that getting to know any new computer brings. Especially to me, technotard and slow learner that I am. Add in my utter loathing for change of any sort, honestly I plotz even over good and happy changes. I'm just now getting over the panic attacky feeling when I acknowledge I'm married to Mick. "Wait. What? I got MARRIED? But...but...but...oh crap. Okay. Breathe, LA, breathe."

To get all Freudian/Jungian/psycho-babbly about it, my past has so well-conditioned me to accept and live with shit that the idea of making positive change is scary and hard. Leave aside the "We're not worthy!" stuff, change itself is terrifying.

In any case, I have written myself into a humongus honking nicotine fit. Writing, even the blogging kind, is the ONE thing I can't seem to do without my smokes. (Yeah, yeah, besides live longer. Yes, smartypants from the peanut gallery, I heard that.) My creative process is hard-wired into that self-destructive place in my brain that luuuurves nicotine. They go together like Laurel and Hardy, thunder and lightning, the GOP and heartless greed.

I also don't know about this WordPad thing. If I wasn't such a moron I could probably find where they hid the regular Word program. But that is a fight for another day. Right now I'm goinng to try to post this and then get in the shower. I snagged a 2:45 doctor's appointment and want to be clean and righteously cranky when I hiss, "No, goddamn it! I'm not smoking! I haven't had a cigarette since Friday night! So skip the lecture and give me good drugs or I'll cut you, man."


Don't mess with a junkie who's gone cold turkey, ~LA

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