Apropos of my cryptic, inconsiderate and mildly idiotic post, an update on what’s been happening lately.

I’ve decided to quit nicotine as of 6pm, 2004-11-30. Not “gradually cut down” or any of that shite. As in quit. Now if I could go four days without smoking, I could probably hang out with my best friend without smoking a cigarette, myself.

I also tried to run outdoors, but the cold air is like battery acid as it hits my lungs. Running on pavement is not good for my overly developed calves, which makes the shin splints start singing an unintelligible song, probably by Alanis Morisette, reaching a shrill crescendo with one message: stop, and walk back the fuck home.

Whatthefuckever; my legs rebel against me when I run outside. I’ve gone back to the inhumane treadmill—that machine of death that is The Hamster Wheel—that does not allow for any sort of meditation. There is only the drone of the machine as the conveyor loops eternal, at the speed you ask it to. There are neither the feel nor the sound of the wind. There is only myself, the machine, and FOX News, if I am in the mood.

There is also The Iron, that best friend that never lies. I was able to set up the weights bench. Being unable to bench fifty pounds for enough sets to call a “toning routine” is a truly humbling experience. Oh, and for the record the most I can bench in one try is one hundred and thirty. But what’s the point of benching one’s max once? Someone tell me, because I see no other point than to offer it as a sacrifice for whatever prep cult one worships with. I’m lifting to get hard. Not to get popular.

So. I have a date with The Iron and The Hamster Wheel every other day. The Hamster Wheel alone, every day except rest days, which are, more often than not when I feel that my legs really do need some rest. This is also before my day of work actually starts, dear friends.

Cardio. Resistance. Nicotine withdrawal. Candy-directed transference of oral fixations; prepare for immediate Starburst.

Am I starting to sound like Bridget Jones yet? Y’all haven’t ready anything yet! When I start clawing at my throat, desperately gasping for some smoke, I’ll probably type a post before I even wash my bloody fingertips.

As Susan Estrich would insist. You ain’t seen nothing yet. Right on ya, miss Yale Law prof. You’ll always be remembered as the Dukakis campaign manager, and look where that got yer boss.

Peace out. More cranky blogging later.