DAY 14 BITCHES!

Another purely gratuitous pic of the delectable Wentworth I know, but it is loosely related to what I'm about to say, I promise...

This weekend has been nothing short of hellish for no other reason than a lack of nicotine.

Fucking cancer.

I had foolishly thought that once I was past the first week, I would be OK. But alas no...

I don't know why it was so bad, but I assume the cravings that drove me to distraction and forced me to contemplate throwing myself under a bus were due to the fact that I wasn't at work.

Temptation was everywhere and I almost caved after the 13th newsagents I walked past. Everyone seemed to be smoking and all I could think was 'why do they get to smoke and I can't?'

I was miserable and I knew that it would all go away if I just had a cigarette...

But I persevered, worked through it and satiated my cravings with impure thoughts of Mr Miller (see, told you there was a reason for the pic! I swear to God, if I didn't have him to distract me, I would be smoking myself into a coma as I type).

In the end, I had to go home and literally hide. I drew the curtains in the living room and watched season 1 of Prison Break on DVD.

That may be the saddest thing I've ever admitted to and could constitute a cry for help but I don't give a shit.

I gotta do what I gotta do and you gotta do what you gotta do...

So I've made it to day 14, thank God, and I feel great...yay!

God bless you Wentworth Miller!

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No 31: Fix a toilet

Jesus wept, I've had a mother fucker of a couple of days and I need a cigarette so bad that I can't quite remember why I've given up. Was it a good reason? I hope so...

Awoke yesterday morning to find a leak in my Handbag Room (yes, I have a Handbag Room in my house, doesn't everyone? *blinks*). There was a huge wet patch on the ceiling and water was coming through the light fitting. Joy!

Cue mild panic, crying and hair pulling.

It was one of those situations when it takes you a couple of moments to decide what to do, so there I was, staring at this water thinking 'WHAT THE FUCK??!! Should I call 999?'

My first thought, of course, was for the safety of the handbags and quickly moved them all to my bedroom, where they would be safe.

I then began to think a little more clearly and called the insurance company instead, who despatched a plumber. He was round within an hour and quite possibly one of the moodiest men I have ever had the misfortune of letting in my house (although not *the* moodiest, it pains me to say).

Clambering into the loft, all I heard was a muffled 'Jesus Christ!'

Cue more panic, crying and now wailing.

What was it? Was the ceiling about to collapse? Had the roof blown off in the night and I hadn't noticed? Was it a dead body? Were there a family of gypsies squatting in my loft?

No, the cold water tank had overflowed. A minor problem that took less than 15 mins to resolve and will cause little or no damage. All I have to do is let the ceiling dry out and all will be well again.

So not really something that warranted such a reaction.

I'd hate to live with the man. 'Jesus Christ there's something on my foot! No wait, it's just a sock...'

Cunt.

Today hasn't been much better. This morning I awoke to the toilet not flushing. Joy!

Called the moody plumber, who couldn't come around until 2pm so I told him not to bother (not wise I know, but it was the lack of nicotine talking and I'd rather die than admit that I need a man. Reason number 147 why I will die alone...)

So I decided to fix it myself.

Lifting the lid off the cistern (I think that's what it's called) I looked into the tank and quickly realised that without seeing a button that said 'Press here to fix', I had no fucking idea what I was doing.

But being the logical soul that I am (translation: I more or less told the plumber to get fucked so had no other choice), I went to the toilet downstairs to compare the two.

Taking a photo on my phone (technology 'eh?) I went back upstairs and realised what the problem was: the tank wasn't filling up with water.

Locating the pipe, I turned the head to get the water running and the head promptly fell off and water started gushing *everywhere*!

Cue blind panic, screaming and nausea at being doused in toilet water.

After struggling with it for a bit, I not only got the water to stop gushing but I only fucking fixed the thing! Don't ask me *how* I just did!

Get me, I'm Handy Andy! Can I call myself a plumber now?

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Day 4: Not killed anyone...yet...

Feeling surprisingly calm today. Managed to get some sleep last night so feel more human. The cravings are still there but are proving less of a distraction. My head's still killing me though.

I'll be honest, I thought I would have caved by now so I'm v.proud of myself. That doesn't mean I won't but I keep telling myself that if I got through the first 72 hours, which are apparently the worst, it's going to get better. (Impure thoughts of Wenthworth Miller are also helping immensely! On my first anniversary of giving up, I shall write him a letter thanking him for the support).

*SCREAM*

Just went into my desk drawer to look for some headache pills and found my emergency pack of cigarettes!

*runs for the hills*

Day 3: Fuck Nicotine

Oh God help me. Today has been *awful*

It would appear that everyone in the world apart from me, is smoking. Everyone I walk past in the street, stand next to at the station, sit next to in a cafe...everyone...

Even Wentworth Miller it would appear (my mate, the smoker, took great pleasure in telling me). Damn, I knew that boy was a bad influence *purs*

And the smell...it's potent...almost hypnotic. I've turned into some sort of cigarette bloodhound, smelling any fag within a 2 mile radius.

God I miss it. I *really* miss it.

But I will be strong. I shall resist. I shall overcome.

*shakes fist at nicotine*

But the insomnia, head aches and profuse sweating are all deterring me from not picking up a cigarette. I swear to God, I am never doing this again. It's hell.

All of this could explain my last post about The Killers. I just re-read it and even I have to admit, I sound like an utter cunt. But I still stand by every word I say. It wasn't a pleasant experience. Although my fight with that Neanderthal may have been some Karmic punishment for telling that bloke to get fucked on the train.

*looks at picture of Earl*

*hangs head in shame*