Please, a Little Respect; for I am Fu, Queen of Having No Game

A male friend of mine was complaining the other night that he has "no game" with the ladies, all because he couldn't close on some girl that I found a bit "meh" anyway, but that's beside the point.

I find this laughable, noting correctly that he dates plenty of girls, and has had a few long-term relationships, was even engaged once, etc. His argument was that all those relationships ended. But he's still wrong, because not being able to keep a girlfriend isn't "no game," it's just bad luck. Or bad B.O.

"No game" is 30-year old guys living in their parents' basements, "Star Wars" fans, online porn enthusiasts, people who are about to turn 28 with only one long-term relationship under their belt...Oh wait, that's me (um, just the last bit, not the other stuff...although I did fall asleep on the couch the other night and wake up at 3 in the morning to a program called "Guilty Temptations" or something, it appears that HBO is trying to steal Cinemax's share of the soft-core porn market...not that I sat and watched it for 15 minutes before getting up and going to bed, ahem) (and honestly, what's with soft-core porn? I hope it's not about the "actresses" thinking it makes them less of a cheap ho..."No no no, Dad, it only looked like he was railing me from behind in the hot tub, really!" I say, if you're going to be a porno actress, at least get yourself laid in the process...)

But it's true: Fu? No game. None! Even when I have game I have no game.

Exhibit A: The guy from a few months ago. He was unemployed, a chain smoker, had a rather pronounced drinking problem, resorted to selling his personal belongings for beer money, and many other qualities that caused my friend Colleen to say "Um, no. No." And yet? He's the one that dumped me. Pathetic! I didn't get it, because he did seem quite sweet on me at first. He even asked if he could come with me to my friend's wedding ten states away because the prospect of me being away for a weekend bummed him out so much. And yet? He stopped sleeping with me after a couple weeks, and stopped calling me altogether after I made it clear that continuing to date someone and be all snuggly and affectionate and kissy while refusing to come inside at the end of the evening ever makes a girl a bit insecure, and makes her friends think you have some sort of hideous dick fungus you're hiding.

Exhibit B: met a guy at the bar the other night; he claims to remember meeting me at a party three months ago, seems really excited to run into me again, asks for my number, and says "I will definitely be calling you." in a way that was almost creepy in its determination.

So I guess I was not even concerned about whether I'd hear from him, because he was the one who was so interested in me and not vice versa; normally I'm the more aggressive one in these situations (an excellent potential reason for my lack of game--but I can't help that I'm a loudmouth who says whatever's on my mind--it's part of my charm!).

Anyhow, I might still hear from him of course, I'm just hauling out the eye-roll tonight because it's been three days, and the industry standard is two, three tops. And I don't even really care, because I didn't even talk to him for that long; I'm not moping around, just more like, "We define 'definitely' differently where I'm from, pal." (Say that five times fast!)

Possible Reasons for Fu's Lack of Game (despite the fact that she totally made out with an ADORABLE Canadian guy in Montreal last night; wooooot! Too bad he lives in effing Toronto):

1) Gut -- this is a roadblock, but I'm not sure if I give it more power than I should. I see chicks twice my size walking around hand in hand with men that aren't exactly mutants, so I know it can be done...maybe it's just that the boys I like aren't such progressive thinkers about whether their woman can have a muffin top. But don't I make up for that with my rack, and willingness to wear cleavagecentric shirts?

2) Loudmouth -- this one makes more sense. I am an obnoxious bitch, I dominate conversations without even meaning to, and I'm always right, especially about the Red Sox. I'm also pretty funny, and tend to make fun of people heavily, right to their faces. Some guys don't necessarily enjoy being called a douchebag within five minutes of meeting a chick, I guess.

3) Guy Syndrome - I tend to act dude-ish, no matter how high the pile of boxes on my shoe-wall climbs. I drink to excess, talk nonstop about the Pats and Red Sox, belch profusely (usually while doing the excessive drinking), and loudly question the sexuality of any male friend displaying pussylike tendencies. Maybe they're afraid if they like me it'll make them gay or something.

Hm. That's really all I can come up with at this point. And that list isn't even long, and yet still..no game! It's seems preposterous that anyone wouldn't be clamoring to take me to play fucking mini-golf or some shit, because I'm probably about 100 times more awesome than the last person they went mini-golfing with.

Oh, okay then, there's another thing for the list:

4) Too convinced of own awesomeness.

Must sleep now. I exerted myself in Montreal last night to the extent that my voice is off somewhere doing bong hits with my New Orleans voice (note to self: when you go places where people speak French, you end up sounding like Bea Arthur the next morning), spent all day crammed into the backseat of a car like I was a seven-foot dude at Fenway, my bed is beckoning. Just have to punt the cats off of it.

You're Obviously Not a Golfer...

I actually have a good excuse for being so slack lately: my computer is infected with a whooziewhatsit, and I've been afraid to turn it on until I get it fixed. The last time I turned it on the screen went red (aaaaah!), and while everything still seemed to function and I didn't seem to have lost any files or anything, I'm basically terrified to use it until I can take it to someone to get all my anti-whooziewhatsits software in line and clean out whatever the frack is in there.

And while I can always use my work laptop to update from home, the last thing I want to do after working, gymming, cleaning, getting something to eat, blah blah blah, is haul out my laptop case and hook everything up and, laaaaazy Fu. Laaazy. Get it?

My sick laptop was always just there, always on, always already connected. Alls I had to do was pick it up. Maybe that's how the whooziewhatsit snuck on in there, eh?

Anyhow, I hate updating from work, but I figure it can't hurt to take a few minutes from my lunch break to unload the random points and thoughts from the last couple weeks:

1) The Wittle Guy! A few years back, early on in my DC days, when I was *mumble mumble ahem* pounds lighter on my feet than I am now (but still by no means teensy), I dated a guy my roommate and I dubbed "Wee Man." And this was before I even knew about the Wee Man of "Jackass" fame. There was just no other way to describe him. He was itty bitty in every way, a delicate little flower of a guy. We went out for a couple months, but I eventually grew frustrated with both his diminutive stature (I was at my thinnest at this time, yet felt like the Queen Mary whenever we went out) and his blatant homosexuality (two months, never made it past first base. And this is ME we're talking about!).

Anyhow, this is all by way of saying, I met another Wee Man a couple weeks back, and was tickled pink and amused that he seemed to basically LOVE me. This was the whole gamut. He followed me around the bar, offered to get me drinks, plopped down at my table to chat the instant my friends got up to pee...It was truly baffling. I'm not trying to be all "Boohooo, me so fat" here, but I swear I looked twice this guy's size. He was really cute and all but...no. Nooooooo. I felt kinda bad rejecting him, I mean how many guys have been that all about me lately? But really....no. I kept wanting to pat him on the head and put him in my pocket. That's not the basis of a good relationship. Unless you're like, into relationships with giants or something.

2) My Adoring Public. Most of you don't know this, but I've actually been blogging since the days of Flintstones computers made of brick, where your keyboard was hooked up to a talking prehistoric bird that used its beak as a chisel to engrave blog posts into the side of the cave. Okay, since 2001. But still, that's 42 dog years people. I don't link to my old blogs from here, for a number of reasons including but not limited to to: bad writing, embarassing anecdotes from a misspent youth, baaad writing, many posts with inside references to people you are unfamiliar with (~waves to said people~), and really bad writing. If you're dying to read about 21-year old Fu and her misadventures with the opposite sex, weight loss, boozing, and...wait a second. That sounds a lot like 27-year old Fu too (if you replace "weight loss" with "talking about wanting to acheive weight loss while secretly eating Edy's directly from carton"). I've not grown a lick in 6 years? Wtf. Oh well. If you are indeed interested, I will evaluate access to the Fu archives on a case by case basis. Just email me.

But anyway. At Strange Brew Friday night? I was RECOGNIZED! By a lovely young lady who was probably in fracking high school when she used to read me, but whose compliments I'll take just the same. I was RECOGNIZED!!!! Now, I always used to say I would never want to be famous, because people coming up to you all the time must be a huge pain in the general rectal area, but you know what? Nope, not a bit. I SO WANT TO BE FAMOUS NOW! That was great.

3) The Golf Dork. Friday night, before my night was made by My Adoring Fan, Kelly was accosted by a guy rocking Don Johnson's look in "Tin Cup," right down to the overgrown shaggy hair and the ill-advised visor. (Note to men: You can't wear visors if your hair has grown out longer than an inch or two. Just trust me. You look ridiculous.) He also had a pair of ten-dollar mall kiosk sunglasses on one of those foam rubber necklace things.

Golf Dork: Hey there, you have a beautiful smile.
Kelly: Okay, yeah, thanks.
Golf Dork: I couldn't help but notice you sitting here all alone..
Kelly: ~motions to Fu, CLEARLY SITTING RIGHT THERE ACROSS FROM HER~ Well I'm here with my FRIEND.
Fu: ~loudly~ HELLO THERE! NICE TO MEET YOU!
Golf Dork: Oh, sorry, I didn't see you there.

Come ON. I am many things, but I don't think I've ever been invisible, or been in possession of a special Harry Potter Invisibility Cloak (although hoooo baby, the things I'd do with one....also, only 32 more days until the 7th book arrives on my doorstep! EEEE!). And it's not like I'm one of these 85 pound chicks I've been seeing at the Brew lately, who disappear when they turn sideways. Give me a break, GOLF GUY. Speaking of which...

Golf Dork: So, do you golf?
Fu (he was talking to Kelly again, but I couldn't resist): No, but I'll bet YOU do.

Before you think I'm just a bitch, the guy went on to invite Kelly to help him cheat on his girlfriend, becuase "all she does is cut hair." Hm? Men, I swear. Or rather, Manch Vegas men. There were also a group of guys there with an approximately 4-foot tall bong-like structure filled with beer. How did they even get that in the bar? When did Strange Brew start allowing this? Fascinating.

4) Hampton. There really isn't another New England experience quite like Hampton Beach. I love it, I can't help it. I can't imagine going to Rye or one of the other "classy" beaches. What fun would that be? Hampton is like me: It's loud, obnoxious, trashy, often horrifying, drunken, and riddled with cigarette butts. Well, maybe I'm not riddled with butts, but my lungs probably are. Plus, I never feel fat when I hit the beach there, becuase there is inevitably at least five or six ten-year olds that outweigh me by half. Ah, white trash.

Not to mention: The deck at The Sea Ketch, an establishment I really couldn't live without. I've spent some of the finer afternoons of my life guzzling pina coladas on the deck at the Ketch. Mmm, sun and booze, mmmm.

Anyhow, back to the grind. If my computer stops spinning like a top and spewing pea soup at me every time I turn it on, I might start blogging more...

Wicked Sobah

Let's just say that Lindsay Lohan's Memorial Day weekend paled in comparison to mine.

Okay, that's probably not true even a little, considering I don't do drugs. But I did indeed party hearty, as my pops might say, four nights in a row, and stumble my way into dawn's early light not once, but twice. I drank until welcoming the dawn on Saturday night, then again on Sunday.

Prrrrrobably not a good idea, as I spent Monday aching, moaning, coughing, sweating and shivering. I figured it was just a raging hangover and a bad case of the DT's, but it turns out it was raging strep throat and a bad case of a fricking high fever.

I spent this whole week rather incapacitated. I was useless at work, spent every moment not engaged in work fast asleep on my couch, rousing only to take occasional peeks at the Red Sox Scores.

Speaking of them, I freaking had to turn down free Sox tickets this week. That's how much I couldn't suck it up.

I am on day three of the old penecillin now, and feeling much better. But I had to leave a freaking birthday party tonight because I was yawning and dreaming wistfully of the Big Red Couch. Not to mention I wasn't drinking becuase I'm now convinced that my immune system needs at least 2 weeks to recover from my Lohansian Memorial Day.

I am old. And lame. And remarkably happy to be in my jammies right now. I was even annoyed by how smoky my beloved Strange Brew was tonight....even though my last appearance there I was getting change from the bartender for the cig machine and working my way through three-quarters of the damn pack.

"Why did I never notice before how cold it is in here?"
"Becuase you're sober!"

"God, it's so f'n smoky in here. It's making my eyes sting...and it stinks! Why does this normally not bother me?"
"Becuase you're SOBER."

"How come I don't feel dizzy or nauseated, or attracted to that ugly guy slumped over near the juke box?"

Okay, I made up that last one. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go to bed. This is the latest I've been awake all week, and I'm starting to nod off. This is so sad.

I apologize for my lameness. I promise to try and party next weekend so I have something interesting to say. In the meantime, could you keep it down?!? I'm trying to SLEEP.

Non-Smoking Kitty

I admit it freely, after my initial excellent start to 2007, I've fallen gloriously off the wagon and been smoking waaay too much lately.

It sucks, but honestly? I really do, what with bathing suit season rapidly approaching, need to do something about that *cough*40*cough* pounds that mentioned in the entry I wrote five minutes ago.

And smoking helps.

I know it's not gooood that it helps. I mean shit, freaking meth or cocaine would help even better, but you don't see me becoming DruggieManchShoes, do you?

But smoking is a lovely, legal way to cut back on the snackage.

Only problem is that if I break my steadfast "no smoking in the apartment" rule, my kitty Butters? Freaks out.

This is a shelter kitty, so I think maybe she had a bad bad owner in a previous live. She's got no tail, and the shelter couldn't tell me how that happened. So now that she's hauling ass out of the room like she's on fire (pun intended) every time I light up? I've developed some theories.

Theory Numero Uno: Bad Bad Previous Owner Burned her tail with cigarettes. It went up in flames. (Okay, sorry, but that sounds kind of funny.) She was so badly damaged they had to hack the thing off.

Well okay, so that's my only theory. Her fully tailed sister, my other (significantly less busted-looking) kitty Chloe, doesn't have any problems with my light-ups.

So it's making me feel a bit guilty.

~puff puff puff~

Just not that guilty...

What?

Snowbound Nor'easter 2007 Special Event: Sarah Gets Drunk

So all of Manch Vegas is at a standstill, it's snowing like it's the freaking march of the penguins out there, I can't go anywhere, no one's going anywhere, and it's looking like a Friday night of pajamas and girl movies.

So, to spice things up I've decided to get shitfaced.

I stopped by the Rite Aid to get supplies and I've got it all planned out. My only regret is that I didn't get cigarettes, because alone in the dark would be as good a time to cheat as any. But I guess it's for the best, bad enough that I got frozen pizza for later (wasn't I just ranting about how healthy I've been eating?).

So, I've got a little White Trash Loser Snowstorm Bonanza going on here tonight, including the following:

1) Bottle of cheap-ass Rite Aid champers
2) 12 pack of Bud Light in cans (ew) that my parents left here (they like to have supplies here becuase they know I don't keep beer in the house, certainly not canned beer. I love them).
3) Purple pajama pants and a hot pink tank top
4) Two words: Chex Mix
5) Chick flicks

I'm one can of beer and a few handfuls of Chex mix into the night, and already having the best time. Who needs good weather and bars and, like, friends and stuff? I got all I need right here.

I've even staged a mini-Cameron Crowe-athon so far, as I just finished the last 20 minutes of "Say Anything" and am 15 minutes into "Singles."

(I love "Singles," it's so deliciously dated....so very 1992. They even have the old Preview Guide on the TV, and seriously old school Nick-at-Nite with "My Three Sons." I was only in 7th grade when it came out, but I swear to god I had one of the outfits that Keira Sedgwick sports in this film; the high-waisted faded tapered-leg jeans with a faded yellow flannel from the Gap...tucked in. Like grunge your mother would approve of. And this was when Bridget Fonda was working regularly and so beautiful in that "you could have been friends with her in college" kind of way. Actually I think I was friends with her in college.)

But I just watched it last weekend, so I'm switching to another Matt Dillon classic, "Beautiful Girls." A trulyl embarassing picture for all involved, particularly one young Natalie Portman.

One of my faves.

I'll check back in later, before I put in "Sliding Doors."

(Awwww, yeeeeeeah.)

Iowalcoholic

So I booked tickets to the Hawkeye state today for one of my favorite couple's wedding.

I'll be rendevous-ing in the airport to share a ride to the hotel with two other pals, and since I'm landing an hour or so before them I'm already thinking about whether or not the airport in Cedar Rapids has a bar.

I'm also wondering what the bar in the hotel is like, and whether there are other bars in the vicinity.

I mentioned on IM to a friend today that I was thinking about calling the hotel to find out, and we had the following exchange.

Them: Are you serious?
Me: Well...yes.
Them: The wedding isn't for more than two months.
Me: So?
Them: And your'e already wondering where you're going to get drunk?
Me: What's your point?
Them: You're seriously going to call the hotel and say 'I'm going to a wedding there in two months, can you fill me in on the alcohol situation?'
Me: ....
Them: I think you have problems.
Me: So I shouldn't look up the airport to find out about the bar situation either?
Them: ....

But come on now! I'm excited for this wedding. All of my favorite DC people will be there, and I already bought the cutest shoes ever. Nevermind that, as is my usual move at weddings, the shoes will end up under the table as I drunkenly slosh around barfefoot.

Hmmm, maybe I do have problems.

(Shoe problems, that is, as those were the fifth pair purchased in only a week...but so cuuuuuute!)

Man. I have been busting my ass at the gym this week, chugging green tea, still not eating candy or ice cream (my two favorite things) (besides smoking, which I'm ALSO STILL NOT DOING) (can you tell how bad it's starting to get to me? Why wasn't I informed that it takes two months for withdrawal to set in?), and if I don't start getting some results soon I'm goinig to snap.

Snap. For real. Like, I'm contemplating whether or not it's possible to simultaneously eat a Snickers and a gallon of birthday cake ice cream while smoking three packs of cigs and drinking a pina colada.

(That sounds so good!)

No Thong You

My latest favorite blogger, “Good at Drinking, Bad at Life” (see how much we have in common?), complains occasionally why more women don’t wear boy-short style panties.

As a celebrator of all things boy short, allow me to offer a possible explanation (aside from the panty-line argument, which is also totally valid depending on your outfit): boy shorts are made for fatties.

Now before y’all jump down my throat, allow me to ‘splain: this is not to say that thin women would never wear boy shorts (and look damn sexy in them) or vice versa, but I think in general the division in undergarment preference is between women without much booty and women with a big ol’ butt they want to cover up.

Or maybe it’s just me.

When I was a bit thinner, I wore plenty of thongs…although granted mainly those halfsies thongs that had more than just a little string connecting the back to the front. String underwear is not a good look for me, I end up looking like a pork roast.

Furthermore, I don’t really get why g-string wearers don’t just go commando. That three centimeter triangle of fabric covering your gremlin isn’t really doing much, you know? My assumption is that they just secretly like the way the string sticks out at the top of their ass when they bend over.

Sluts.

(No, I’m not jealous.)

(Shut up.)

But with the right sexy matching boy short/bra combo, a girl can look hot and not worry about her butt showing too much, or that the guy is going to try and season her love handles and stick them in the oven.

There’s also the comfort factor. Even when I wore thongs on a daily basis I was always remarkably aware that there was a piece of fabric parked between my ass cheeks. You get used to it, but it’s always there. When I get back down to my fighting weight I think I’ll probably only break out the thong when a severe panty line situation is on the horizon.

Consider me officially in the boy short camp.

In other news, I'm dying for a fucking cigarette.

Since giving them up at New Year's, I've cracked and cheated only twice, once on a night I was so drunk I ended up glued to the bathroom floor with alcohol poisoning, and once when I was in DC with all my goddamn chimney friends (you try staying strong through that).

Other than that, I haven't really thought much about them.

But ever since ditching sweets for lent, it's all I think about....I have actual fantasies about sitting in my favorite spot back at Mackey's (where you can't even smoke anymore, the travesty), dragging luxuriously on a nice Marlboro light and knocking back Rickeys with my partners in crime.

Mmmmmmmm......

(Must. Not...Fold!!)

Come Fly With(out) Me

Am I the only one who understands how completely insane it is to ride on an airplane?

Why is everyone else always acting so damn normal, like they aren't potentially minutes away from a tummy-churning plummet several thousand feet out of the air ending in a horrific fiery death?

If I'm not sedated with a nice cocktail of wine and Advil PM, flying could pretty much count as cardio for me, considering my heart doesn't stop pounding the whole time. And yet I sit there on the plane next to all these people who are just hanging out, having conversations, reading books, not clutching the armrest with a Vulcan Grip of Death (or whatever) and gasping like it's their last every time there's even a teensy bump.

I guess it does occur to me that I do all sorts of stuff that other people think is just as terribly abnormal as strapping themselves into a flying metal death tube several miles above earth.

Like when I mentioned to my friends at brunch on Sunday about how I ate an entire box of Life cereal in one day last week. They looked at me like I'd just told them I'd eaten an entire box of toenails.

(You know what though? If eating an entire box of Life cereal is as horrifying to them as flying is to me, perhaps I ought to rethink my position on it.)

(Nope, it's still delicious.)

I never made it to Mardi Gras, as flying standby in a blizzard isn't really conducive to such things. I did, however, make some excellent friends waiting in line for flight re-bookings for two point two hours.

Regardless of the lack of Mardi Gras, the official Fu Manch Shoes 28 Days of Virtual Rehab officially began at 12 pm on Sunday (before which I had the obligatory last glass of champagne with brunch, of course) and I'm on Day 3. So far, I haven't been shaking in a corner cranking butts and scratching at the invisible bugs on my skin...but the night is young.

Not to mention that tomorrow I've agreed with my friend Kelly to give up candy for lent. Despite my whole "not believing in Christ" thing.

CANDY! Talk about scratching myself and cranking butts.

And that's forty days. I mean, good god!

Although perhaps being cut off from my nougat I.V. cold turkey might be good for the alarmingly yoooge size of my ass lately.

(I may have to cheat on the no smoking pledge at some point here. Most people eat candy to combat smoking cravings.)

(Mmmm, I smoked this weekend, sooooo goooood....)

Yep, I'm an Actual Grown Up

This is what happens when we decide to "just stay in and keep it low-key" on New Year's Eve.

Notice how I'm holding my noisemaker like a cig? See below.

(Sigh.)

Smoking is Cool, Goddamnit

Most people who smoke really wish they could quit, have tried to quit a hundred times, hate that they can't, etc etc etc. They probably have what you call a love-hate relationship with the ciggies. I do not understand this, becuase aside from the social stigma that has developed in recent years, I can't think of a single thing about smoking that I don't love desperately.

(Okay, one thing, and that's smelly hair. Yay! I came up with one, thank the lord, I'm going to need to cling to that.)

I started smoking at 14 because I wanted to be cool. Fat kids do whatever they can, y'all. I had already embraced the classic maneuver, "Be Funny and They'll Hate You Less" made popular by youthful porkers since the cavedays ("Ooga, ooga, pull my finger!" "Ooogahahah! You funny, Me hate you less now, fatty."), but I figured I needed a little something extra.

So, smoking.

When I was 15 I took it up a notch, switching to Marlboro Reds to add that extra layer of bad-assedness to it, which actually worked, sort of. I remember vividly being at a party and bumming a cig to one of the cooooooolest guys (emphasis for irony, I think this guy is like, a cashier now) in school and having him actually comment on how most girls are wimpy and smoke crap-ass light cigs, but I--ME!--was cool for smoking my hideously awful bad-ass manly cigs. Score!

Of course, then he went and felt up some other chick, but hey, we smoked a cigarette together and he called me cool to my face. So at first I think I was just hooked on the coolness. Then I grew up, stopped giving a poo what others thought of me, yet continued for whatever reason to smoke.

Must have been becuase SMOKING IS AWESOME.

Truth be told, folks, I love everything about smoking:

Getting a new pack. The firm feeling of an unopened pack in my hands. Packing said pack against my palm. Peeling off all of the staticky film the packs come wrapped in, a trick I picked up in college to differentiate MY pack of Marlboro Lights from everyone else's, since most people only take off that top bit of film.

The way they smell. I know most people would say they smell gross. And maybe the smoke itself does, but I love the smell of an unsmoked pack of cigarettes, particularly that first waft of tobacco scent that drifts up when you pull off the foil from the top.

The cracklely noise they make when you first light them.

Smoking outside in the cold, when you can already see your breath, and adding the smoke to it and it's like you're exhaling this huge plume of smoke, like a dragon.

The way, if you haven't smoked in a while, that you get the hardest buzz ever when you smoke one.

Smoking and talking. Hate to say this, but I've bonded so much over smoking. I made some of my closest friends in college through it. I spent some of my favorite hours with some of my best friends in high school, college and after college just sitting and smoking and drinking (coffee, beers, glasses of wine).

Smoking and drinking alone. I know, I know. But last summer I spent plenty of nights smoking and guzzling down wine by myself. I gotta admit, this may be pathetic, but it's kind of like going to the movies alone. You're ashamed to admit you do it, but when you're doing it you're wondering why you don't do it more often.

Okay so why all the brouhaha?

Becuase it's been 9 actual days since my last cigarette, and I'm sort of hoping to make it stick. It hasn't really been that hard, considering by the time I decided to give them up for good I was really only smoking when I drank.

Then again, I didn't go out this past weekend due to being a huge giant ball of phlegm shaped like a girl. (It's like my lungs were all "WTF, mate? Where's the smoke, eh? Well, take THIS! *cough cough cough cough cough*" I'm going to consider it a cleansing detoxification.) So it's kind of easy to not smoke when you're not out drinking.

When I go out this weekend, it's possible I'm going to die from needing to smoke so badly. Just so you know, just in case I don't come back and you get all "Hey, what happened to that chick, she wrote the best blogs EVER!"

God, they're so good.

(Sniff!)