Nightmare on S. 18th St.

Day 5. Still nothing life-shattering, but whatever you’ve heard about the patch giving you vivid dreams is true. For me, actually slipping into a dreamstate is an infrequent development at best. Morevoer, when I manage to remember the dreams I do have, they’re always mindboggling in their inanity. They invariably revolve around a mundane aspect of my life (say, my penchant for on-the-run hot dogs) that has been blown up to surreal importance. I wake up cursing my subconscious for being so fucking boring. Over the last four nights, I’ve dreampt about hanging out with ?uestlove and struggling to find the general science section in a Barnes & Noble-type establishment. In the latter (based, strangely enough, on an actual "incident" from last week), a reluctant clerk points me to the section’s new home in the store’s cavernous basement, which can only be entered after battling a series of Pitfall-esque trials. Freud was full of shit.

Though I remain more energetic and alert than ever, writing’s still a major, major chore. This blog could easily consist of me howling “Sentences aren’t coming to me!” every post. I therefore promise not to mention this problem till I get it licked. You’re welcome.

And away we stop!

Welcome one and all to my first post, albeit one that, in typical me-fashion, is already three days late.

Ever since early March 2001*, I've been what I would describe as a "pretty heavy smoker." I never went so high as 2 packs a day, but I got awfully close. Moreover, for some of that time I was actually rolling them, which I discovered was a great way to impress girls while still spending next to nothing. (Plus, those anti-corporate anti-smoking commercials can't get to you.) But the girls never stayed around -- presumably because the smell did -- and do I really need to go into the yellow fingers and deep, layered coughs?

Anyway. Might as well put this in stone: On Sunday, 16 October 2005, at or around 10:20am, I sucked down my final two cigarettes, walked over to a pack of Nicoderm (those are the patches, for those not hip to the array of anti-cigarette products), and slapped one of those babies onto my forearm.

Not that anyone’s forcing me to do a near-daily chronicle of my plight (yes, I'm using such dramatic terminogly vis-a-vis this), and surely I'm not the type to indulge in such 12-Steppy shenanigans. However, I feel that a) I should let my future self know how I felt step by step, b) publishing these in the magma of the blogosphere on a semi-regular basis will play some hand in keeping me from slipping (fear of public humiliation is a powerful thing), and c) this is as good a place as any to pour out some unprocessed words and sentence structures when I’m suffering writer’s block from a combination of stress and cigarette smoking withdrawl (such as now).

Essentially, I have become so reliant on cigarettes, both as a jolt and an oral fixation, that I realized, to no one’s shock, that I sort of really need them to live. They're what I've used for many of my daily activities, most of all when it has come to writing. Last night, for instance, I couldn’t even bring myself to write at all. For the last hour, for another example, same thing. So here I am.

So how's it going on my fourth day in? Mashed potatoes and gravy -- mostly. I had essentially blocked this off as an option after my first, feeble attempt circa 2002 (via Nicorette), fearing that I would just collapse, unable to move, communicate, write and basically live if I entirely removed cigarettes from my daily diet. But these first two days have, relatively speaking, been a snap. The lovely, square, transparent thingie on my upper arm sends nicotine through my system, and at a mellow degree to boot. Along with the four pieces of Nicorette that I chew a day (for those times when I need a classic jolt, though given their strength, I wouldn’t dream of doing any more than my self-prescribed lot), it has effectively killed my physical/chemical craving for cigarettes.

All that’s left is my psychological and habitual needs for the stuff, and, much to my absolutely sincere surprise, those are pretty easy to ignore. No doubt this is due to my investment in a fuck-off phalanx of mints, gum, and Halls. (I recommend the fun pack, which mixes the regular, boring lozenges with fun ones, like the blend of fruit and cream that is the Fruit Breezer.) That helps my psychological need, but so far, and for obvious reasons, have yet to extend to my habitual need. I'm still having trouble shaking off thinking that a cigarette is right around the corner. Sunday night, I was on a train. When I heard that Philly was only 20 mintues away, I did a little mental hurrah!, denoting that I will be inhaling cancerous smoke by the score in that aforementioned time. Then I realized that no, I won't be doing that after all. In fact, I have little to look forward to (except fresh air, that is). The same with finishing a meal, walking to my morning shuttle bus, my little scheduled “break times” during work and, most of all, first thing in the morning. I already miss them, and not like a heart attack.

While the cravings have proved remarkably easy to pass over, there are occurrances I’m very alarmed about. Last night, I walked home feeling great, imparting my enthusiasm re: quitting as I inhaled big breaths, congratulating myself on a decision well followed-through. As soon as I got home, and for reasons I still can't comprehen, I collapsed. I couldn’t write, I couldn’t get over a headache, I had no energy and I wound up face down on my bed. I woke up at 3am, having apparently passed out somewhere between 10 and 11pm. This morning, too, I was insanely, absurdly slow, and actually muttering to myself over trivial things, like not being able to find my SEPTA token. I was useless for much of the morning, and was too scared of getting no advanced work on the Weekly done that, rather than head out to Elizabethtown (my first movie post-quitting), I went back home to make sure I’d make good use of my awake time. (I didn't. I have yet to start this week's writing.)

So for now, I have to experiment with my mutating body. Do I have to sleep more? If I chew less than four pieces of Nicorette a day, will I wind up with more energy for longer? If food can’t keep me going, will exercise? Will the lack of smoking (i.e., slowing my body down) up my metabolism, therefore making it easier to write in less time? And if so, do I just use that time to take walks and shit? And how long should I wait to step inside a bar that allows smoking? (Coffee, which typically makes my hyper, has yet to make me fiend for a smoke.) And perhaps more importantly, is it physically recommendable to take aspirin (or somesuch headache-relieving agent) to combat those times of overwhelming cranial fuzziness? This blog will be a journal of my findings. (Sorry for the mad scientist-isms. I just bought the new edition of Cronenberg's The Fly.)

For those who've made it this far, do know that most posts won't plod on for this long. This is purely introductory and I will try my best to keep this from slipping into anything remotely non-cigarette-related. Also be forewarned that I'm pretty damn sure things will get pretty disgusting around here. My cough's repulsive -- why shouldn't my description be too? We're edgy here, folks.

* It all started after seeing The Mexican. I still don't know the connection, if any.