People who smoke smell, and other news flashes from this week

Day 14. 1. More specifically, smoke smells, and I now notice that. When you smoke, especially if you smoke in your place of residence, your sense of smell adjusts accordingly, as the stink attaches itself parasitically. Now that it's back to normal, I have to say y'all are right: that smoke sure smells funny.

2. More on the patch-induced vivid dreams. I'm officially sick of them, maybe even afraid of the havoc they've been wreaking upon my already fragile psyche. At first, it was kind of fun: I started eagerly anticipated sleep, which I rarely do, as each night promised some kind of wacky, highly unpredictable but invariably asinine misadventure. But they've since become genuinely upsetting. Presumably because my subconscious has already been mined for vaguely interesting material, my dreams now reach back to the confines of my memory, unearthing traumas that are not only very archaic but had been officially bested years before. (Let's just say they're as vivid as my descriptions of them are vague.) (Also, don't leave a comment re: my idiotic grasp of brain terminology. I'm on it.) As a result, I have developed a habit of suddenly bursting into inconsolable tears -- my first crying jags since the '90s. I think I have to stop wearing the patch while I sleep (the box actually mentions this, as though vivid dreams were always evil), but I'm reluctant because

3. Taking off the patch brings back the nic fits. My fellow smoke-quitters agree: as long as the patch is on, there is no urge. But two have reported that when they took it off for a bit, one out of cockiness, they immediately relapsed into a foaming, nervy, loud cig fiender. I've been that guy before. I hate that guy. I wish not to see him return. But look: my dreams are making me cry. It's embarrassing. Wish me luck.

A pun or somesuch on my busted-ass leg

Day 8. Sorry for the lazy self-defeat inherent in the post title. I'm on an army of painkillers right now, as last night, while at a party, I leaned gently and casually against a table top, and wound up tumbling to the floor. You see, my kneecap (or "patella," as I now know to refer to it) went dislocated for no discernible reason, but badly enough to require a foamy, velcro-laden brace that keeps my leg at a perfectly (or not) straight trajectory. I am now an invalid, confined to the third floor of my house, finding new ways to use my crutches, and entertaining a battery of very welcome friends. (I thank you all. Do bring food.)

How does this remotely relate to this blog, i.e., my quitting smoking odyssey? Put simply: I have not craved one at all. And that's as baffling, really, as the injury itself.

Oh. If anyone has suggestions on how to wield the mighty crutch(es), please dish. Go upper body strength.