Two Little Setbacks. Yet, I forge ahead.

As is obvious by the previous post, I've had a rough week. Nothing worth going into, mostly a case of a visit by the black dog.


It's Thursday. I feel as if I'm over the hump and I am feeling better.

But I have to confess:

I broke.

I had two smokes yesterday. On the positive side neither was very satisfying and they immediately made me feel a bit ill. I'll write about it more in depth later. I wanted to post something now so that I didn't attempt to hide my shame by never posting on here again (which believe me, is entirely within the realm of possibility).

Thank you again to everyone who has offered support. This is a bump in the road. I'm still a non-smoker. I'm still intent on living a life without cigarettes.

Thank you all very much.

...

The Notorious B.I.G. - "Hold Ya' Head (remix)"

I'm not very happy right now. In fact it's safe to say I feel like horrible dried up cat shit.

I'm of the mind to shoot fire out of my mouth and watch as the world turns to ash.

I'll be on top of the Hollywood sign, laughing as I suck down Camel Wide Cigarettes with the filters ripped off.

I'll hold the smoke in until I find a puppy or a baby and blow the noxious fumes right into their faces.

I will do that because I feel it will make me happy.

Fuck. I want a cigarette. Right now it seems like the only solution.

This sums up exactly how I'm feeling at the moment.

(whokilledbambi)

Wacked Out Anti-Smoking PSA Edition!

This blog shouldn't always be about my life and my brief ephemeral bursts of rote script. Who's to say we can't have fun too? I mean besides Hitler.

I present to you below the five weirdest anti-smoking PSAs I found on You Tube within the span of the amount of time I was comfortable with dedicating to this post.

5) Droids are Prideful Creatures



Weird, right? Cigarette smoke doesn't harm droids but instead of smoking like robot chimneys they've decided to lay off for our benefit? I understand the need for realism, but why was it necessary to flaunt that?

"Shit, we could smoke every day if we wanted to and because we're heartless cold machines it wouldn't mean shit. But you dumb meat sacks need to be taught a lesson."

Fuck you George Lucas, you and your aggressive pro-droidist agenda.

4) The Ultimate Warrior is Just Fine with the Ultimate Warrior



"The Ultimate Warrior has a lot of bad habits, but only ones that help me survive!"

Sanctimonious, much? Coincidentally, when asked what his number one bad habit was, the Ultimate Warrior responded with: "I care too much. About steroids."

3) Ladies and Gentlemen: Silda and the Smoke Frees!



What?! Not once did our middle school assemblies feature pyrotechnics and a freakishly dead-eyed polar bear.

Unfortunately, Silda the bear, suffering from nicotine withdrawal, overcame his handlers and massacred the young non-smokers in the audience. The ones who survived soon perished after the smoke machine from the concert gave them lung cancer.

This post is a tribute to their memory.
Never forget.

2) Stop Staring at My Mouth



There is nothing funny about this Australian PSA. Unless if you, like me, are kinda' thinking that the woman in the ad might be really hot if she didn't have... you know... that whole terrifying mouth thing.


1) Pure Distilled 1980s: Now from Concentrate!



Wow. The pop-art style animation, the bright neon colors, the weird cut-outs, the smoking ducks (which I can only assume is a reference to Howard the Duck, the highest grossing movie of Parallel Earth-703) - this is clearly the work of some some Ogilvy ad-exec who railed a few too many lines in the bathroom of Spago's while A-Ha's "Take on Me" played repeatedly over the speakers in some kind of drug induced 1980s specific freak out. Well played sir, well played indeed.

*) SUPER BONUS VIDEO



I found this when I discovered the Ultimate Warrior PSA. Watch how Booker T realizes what he's about to say, tries to say something else on the first syllable but eventually just goes with it, only to cover his head in shame immediately after it comes out. Schadenfreude at its finest.

I'm in the third week now. Keep going strong.

An Adventure in Hypnomitosis!

Beastie Boys - "Alive"


I didn't think it would work. The whole process seemed predicated upon not only giving up control, but entrusting another with the inner most reaches of your consciousness. If that doesn't scare you, you've never had impure thoughts about how baby Pokemons are made.

Point and match.

Like at many times in life, I was entirely ignorant* when I showed up at Cinda Roffman's office in Tarzana for a hypno-therapy session. Cinda is the aunt of a friend of mine. She's also a trained hypno-therapist who helps smokers become ex- or, my preferred term, non-smokers.

After filling out some paperwork, we moved to Cinda's office. The session was timed to run 90 minutes. Not knowing what to expect I had some slight anxiety about being hypnotized for an hour and a half. I'm not going to lie, a little part of me was afraid of being so relaxed I would crap my pants. Yes, I have some minor anxiety issues . Fortunately, we began the session in a much more straightforward manner.

We talked about smoking.

Why I started, why I wanted to quit, what I enjoyed about it, what I hoped to achieve with the session... I'm normally hesitant to talk about myself with a stranger, especially about something I'm not proud of, but Cinda was very warm and put me at ease quickly.

I could tell you were getting bored, so I gotted you this picture.

Our discussion went to some interesting places. When asked my number one reason for quitting, I said, without hesitation, "the smell." Afraid that was too superficial an answer, I rattled off other things: health issues, wanting to focus more on improving (as opposed to destroying) myself, etc...

But is "the smell" such a bad reason to quit? I think not. You can smell a smoker a mile away. The odor follows you around, wafting onto your clothes and body, forever drenching you in a stink that says: "A part of me wants to kill myself on a very gradual level." I have more to say about my rediscovery of my sense of smell, but I'm already late on this post and going to run too long anyway. Another time then.

As the discussion wound down we entered into the first step towards hypnotism. Cinda asked me to sit very still in the chair while posing carefully phrased questions about my smoking habits. We identified the usual triggers: drinking, feeling bored, that customer who you're sure is mentally ill but is such an incorrigible prick that you find it hard to cut him any slack and kind of hate yourself for it.

But like Transformers, this test had more to it than a simple tale of robots who bring war and eventual occupation to our planet. Firstly, I was only allowed to answer the questions with an affirmative nod or a shake of my head for now. There was no in between, I had to take a firm stand. But it was halfway through the questionnaire that I realized I was being asked the same questions twice, the second time a slight variation of the first. It threw me off a bit and I can remember struggling somewhat to try and recall how I had previously answered.

They came for the non-renewable energy, they stayed because they had made a giant mess of things.

Yet, I think I understand the method to this process. Not allowing verbal communication encouraged me to be comfortable in my own head space. The didactic nature of the test meant that I had to think and think hard because there was no space for anything but a "yes" or "no" answer. I was stuck with just my inner thoughts, albeit at this point on a purely conscious level.

Then the test ended, and lo, here is where things started to get weird.

Cinda had closed the blinds. She asked to me lean back in the office chair and close my eyes. She proceeded to tell me to relax my whole body, from my toes to my forehead. Slowly I began to breathe heavier as every part of me eased up, the tension slipping away like every girl I ever tried to date in high school. This experience wasn't entirely mysterious, I've dabbled with self-hypnosis CDs when I've had trouble sleeping.

I was relaxed, very relaxed. "Your arm will start to move upwards," Cinda said, "as it reaches over to touch your forehead." And behold, my arm did indeed do that. But wait! Before we go any further, here's what I think might be the "trick" to hypnotism. My arm didn't move on its own volition, it moved because Cinda had "suggested" that I moved it. The suggestion, cleverly phrased, sounded like an inevitability even though it was my choice. Thus when I moved I arm I could frame my decision within the parameters of it being a natural part of the hypnotism process.

Confusing? Incoherent? The narcissistic drivel of a mostly mediocre writer?

Yes, I hope not, and awww, you think it's not all bad?

On one level you realize that you're still in control but it's accompanied by the realization that you are responding to an external suggestion. Weird.

To be honest, what comes next, is... fuzzy. Cinda asked me to open my eyes and move from the office chair to the comfy pull out Lazy Boy-esque chair seated across from her desk. I can remember opening my eyes and feeling incredibly focused on that task. It was the feeling that I didn't know why I was doing this, I just had to do it.

Still relaxed, but not completely under, I lied back in the chair. Cinda moved so that she was sitting next to me, encouraging me to continue breathing deeply. I started to feel more relaxed than at I have at any point ever, like ever ever. It was wonderful. From what I can recall Cinda had me visualize a set of climbing a set of stairs, each one representing a reason for why I wanted to quit smoking. And goddammit, I climbed those stairs!

I was hypnotized. But I didn't know it. I had assumed that when one is hypnotized the conscious mind is locked away somewhere, furiously trying to get out so it can kill and kill again. But that wasn't the case. I'm not lying when I say I was completely conscious of the whole process. I was most definitely in a deep hypnotic state, but I was entirely aware of everything: the chair, Cinda's voice, the heavy machinery outside. I can remember having conscious thoughts, even zoning out as I wondered if it's my haircut that the opposite sex finds so off putting.

Short answer: Yes. Long answer: Yes, you d-bag.

Like I said, most of it is fuzzy, but the last thing I remember is Cinda suggesting that when I awake the color red will be more vibrant, a reminder of my decision to "stop." Everywhere I'd look I'd be surrounded by visual affirmations of my struggle to leave Mme. Nikotine crying on the curb, begging for one last night of desperate passion.

With a snap, I awoke. Almost immediately I found myself not able to recall most of what Cinda had said. But that's okay. Her message wasn't for my conscious mind. This session was meant to fortify the subconscious mind, the part that controls most of everything you do without you even realizing it (which is why you keep dating jerks, srsly, sort your life out).

Has it worked? I don't know, I'm not sure if this is an experience that will necessarily yield quantifiable results.

But I haven't smoked in two weeks.

I've fought cravings during times of extreme stress and not given in.

I've started to readjust to a life without smoking, confident that I can break the bad patterns I indulged in.

I've seen some of my closest friends make the inspiring choice to quit as well. It's nice to feel their solidarity.

I've begin to feel good about myself again, in a way that I haven't in years.

Sorry this post took so long to produce. I'll try to work on that. If you've read this far you're probably just scrolling down to the comments to demand the money I owe you. Don't worry, I'm working on it, I just need five more minutes.

I like you all very much. Enjoy the track.

*This is the last time I will ever admit this. Enjoy it now, 'cause you won't get another chance.

DAY 10: Dignity Dies First

Art Brut - "DC Comics and Chocolate Milkshake"


Ten.

Ten whole days without so much as a puff of a cigarette. It's been nearly four years since I've done that. I smoked every day. If I didn't have any on me, I'd rush to buy a pack, even if I had a near full pack at home. If I was broke (which I often am) I would bum from my friends (a practice I elevated to the status of war crime).

But that was not the worst. Here is how I knew I was addicted to cigarettes:

If it came down to it, and I was broke as fuck and there was no around to bum from and I just needed a cigarette, not wanted, straight up needed, I would walk outside to the patio, and ho-kay, try to find a half smoked cigarette on the ground.

Yeah. I did that.

Sometimes it would take a while to find one that wasn't entirely smoked or, in whatever arbitrary conditions I was relying upon, unsuitable for smoking (due to the fact that it had been lying on the ground outside AFTER SOMEONE THREW IT OUT).

There's not much logic to this behavior. I'd waste time sifting through refuse, hoping against hope that I could find that thing that would put dangerous substances into my body in order to satisfy a fix that, like my obsession with microwaving aerosol cans, will one day kill me. This is the same kind of thought process that goes into eating a stuffed crust pizza from Pizza Hut. You're putting garbage into your system, but goddammit if it doesn't hit the spot.

It was compulsive behavior. All addicts are compulsive. It's why I have pulled over to the side of the road on Wilshire to try and find a cigarette I'm just sure is hiding under my seat. I think my dignity died first when I began smoking.

Heavy shit. I want to say now that I do not have any pictures with semi-clever captions in this post. If that's a deal breaker, I totally understand.

Now that I've said what I needed to say, and in a manner that wasn't nearly as brief or as entertaining as it should have been, I can proudly report that I kicked ass this weekend.

On Saturday I hung out at USC with a very nice lady friend. It was interesting to be back at my old school. We attended an indie book fair, that while being hip, was in no way overbearing. All in all, the day was lovely.

That night I went to a friend's party, my first as a non-smoker. I did not have high hopes going in. I dreaded an anxiety fest of patch scratching and beleaguered conversation on my part. Instead I hung out for a while, talked to a lot of people and ate some delicious pigs in blankets. I even hung out with the smokers outside. It involved a fair amount of self-control, but it was great to know I'm capable of it.

Sunday and Monday passed without incident. Nothing much else to add.

Most importantly, I've realized that a blog consisting merely of posts congratulating myself on not smoking, is a blog that will wear itself thin by day twelve. That is why Wednesday morning (4/22/09) I will wake up early on my day off, drive to Tarzana and meet a vert nice woman named Cinda. Cinda is a hypno-therapist. I am going to be hypno-therapatized.

My roommate underwent hypnotherapy for quitting smoking and I've been fascinated by the process. I'm not entirely sure what it entails, how it works, if it works, or what I'm hoping to achieve. Honestly, I'm only doing it to give myself something to write about. Also, to entertain you, the readers, many of whom are people other than me.

I'll get my shit together tomorrow after the session and post something that night. Wish me luck. Or don't. Either way if you've read this far, I'm sorry for the bad grammar.

DAY 10: DONE

Cigarettes smoked: 0

On Delayed....Gratification

I am generally not a patient person. If I want something, I want all of it and I want it now. Only recently have I become acutely aware of this and have realized that it is in fact, not my best feature (that would be my lovely, lovely ass).

His name is Jeffery.

Wednesday was my day off. I usually work on whatever script I happen to be avoiding the rest of the week. Not coincidentally that is the day in which I smoke many, many cigarettes. The combination of not being distracted by work and the effort I put into writing often results in a whirlwind of nicotine, iced tea and many sessions of laser pointer vs. cat.

It's weird having a day off in the middle of the week. If my roommate isn't home, I'm usually alone with no one to talk to until everyone I know gets done with work. Most days it's fine, I appreciate the alone time, but I will confess the solitude can drive me a bit bonkers. Left to my own devices, I have the potential to get very bored, very quickly. Which is why I usually filled these lonely gaps with excessive cigarette smoking.

As I began to think about quitting, I realized I had to figure out why I started smoking at all. After sitting in Rodin's "The Thinker" pose for nearly five hours (and having my fist fall asleep) I came to the conclusion that one of my core beliefs, an organizing principle through which I approach life, is that no matter what I do, I am always preparing myself for the worst to happen. But, if I'm constantly waiting for bad news to erupt like a xenomorph out of John Hurt's chest then how am I supposed to enjoy anything? It's funny, I wouldn't define myself as a pessimist, but here we are.

"What does this have to do with smoking," you say, "why am I even reading this blog when there are Nigerian princes in desperate need of my time and attention?"

Well sir or ma'am, smoking is an immediate act of gratification. When you inhale nicotine smoke the chemicals go all the way to your brain resulting in the release of the neurotransmitter dopamine. Now excuse me while I recklessly disregard the fundamental complexities of neurochemistry and jump straight to the fact that when dopamine is released that shit makes you feel good, like taking a bath in ice cream cake good.

The next morning his trachea fell out. It truly was the best spring break ever.

So on one hand cigarettes give you this brief neurochemical high where your brain gets these neat little neurotransmitters that swing by and say things like:

"Oh hey brain, you look hot in those capri pants!"

and

"Why no brain, your fauxhawk isn't lame at all"

Yet, while these awesome little dopamines are chilling with your brain, their crazy friends, Nicotine, Ammonia and that dick Carbon Dioxide have come over, gone uninvited into your lungs, started using foul language, getting really drunk and are being just generally unpleasant.

"Oh god, fine! Don't use a coaster!"

That new iPod your brain just got? Well, Ammonia got wasted on some left over PBRs and pissed on it.

That photo your brain took of a homeless guy for its college photography class? Nicotine thought it would look much better if it was microwaved.

And oh man, Carbon Dioxide, he's about to post this as your brain's Facebook status:


Yeah, like I said... dicks.

Moving on.

Me, being the impatient man-child who has problems with delayed gratification, I took to cigarettes like a bum to Cisco. Because I operate under the condition that the other shoe is always going to drop, I'm constantly searching for gratification that is stress-free and immediate. Enter sweet Nikki Nicotine, the ruin of many a poor lung.

That is a part of why I'm quitting. It isn't only that cigarettes are terrible for me, they also represent a fundamental flaw in myself that I can no longer tolerate. I have to accept that whether I like it or not, bad things are going to happen, the trick being that I probably shouldn't expect them to. But in order to avoid the future I've either actively done nothing or overcompensated and done too much.

So I'm going to become friends with delayed gratification.

I'm not going to smoke cigarettes anymore because I'm accepting that while I may feel stressed out and overwhelmed in the moment, I doubt I will feel like that forever.

I'm not going to be afraid to write, because while the first draft may be shit, I can always improve it later.

If there's a girl I like, who I think is awesome in every way and who seems like one in a million, I'm not going to freak out over whether she'll call me back or not. If she's really that cool, she will.

Delayed gratification, I think this could be the start of something beautiful.

Thanks for everyone's support. Today was rough. I have some cool plans for this blog that I'm hoping I'll be able to pull off. If you've read this far: I lurv u. Enjoy the track.


Vlad Avdeyev - "Après Moi (Regina Spektor cover)"

No Day 3 Update // I'm Feeling Pretty Crappy

No two ways about it:

I FEEL LIKE CRAP.

I knew this was coming. I had pangs of it on the second day, but truly and utterly I am going through withdrawal. Even with the nicotine patch, which administers 21mg of nicotine but over an extended period of time, I can feel my body screaming out, in desperate need of a cancer stick.

I'm pissy, irritable and every little thing seems to be frustrating the hell out of me. In the last five minutes the following things have pissed me off far more than they should have:

// Trying to push open the door to the store and then realizing it can only be pulled open

// Having the work computer freeze on me, which made me so enraged I began slamming down the enter key until my co-worker politely asked me to stop

// Misspelling the word "nicotine" in an IM I was sending to a friend

// Getting a frappucino from a customer (for freez!) and then having it spill on the store counter, which was entirely my fault as I tried to pour it into another cup

// Hearing Leonardo DiCaprio exclaim, for the third time today so far, that: "This car is a piece of shit!" as Body of Lies plays on loop in the store

// The word "smashing" as a euphemism for knocking boots (which I prefer as a euphemism for banging)

// The fact that gMail was down

And generally every other thing that happens to go slightly wrong. If I'm short with you today, I'm sorry, I'm trying my best, but I'm not feeling so hot right now.