Mrs Woog decides to stop killing herself

You may have heard the rumours around the inter-webs that I (hopefully) put out my last cigarette at around 9.30pm on Sunday night. An hour later, I called a mate and begged her to bring me a cigarette over, but thankfully she was too pissed to oblige me.

So in the last 24 hours I have experienced every single emotion known to humankind, including several new ones that I have discovered and am in the process of patenting. Pretty much everyone is annoying me. Mr. Woog has decided to go on a health kick to get his cholesterol down and spent fucking a billion dollars on things like organic tahini and this-is-not-butter-but-has-been-made-in-a-lab-to-taste like-butter-that-will-be-$46-please.

So he is cooking all this shit that no one else wants to eat so I ate party pies for dinner last night because I ordered pizza online but the pizza placed was closed yet they were still accepting and taking orders online which was as shifty as FUCK but they called this morning and apologised and credited my account. FREE PIZZA but not really.

In between sulking and forgetting that I don’t smoke anymore, I am in despair that it would appear that everyone in the entire universe is happy, laying on beaches in filtered Instagram shots with their hot husbands and fluff free fanwas. Their children are not having tantrums and slamming doors, or even running away which one of mine did last week. I waved them off from the front porch.

What a time to give up smoking. But there is never a good time to give up smoking. I know the difference between habit and addiction and those to babies dance a mean duet. The habit turns to the addiction “Care to lead…” and before you know it, your body is requiring that nicotine hit.

And I fucking hate those holier than thou folks who look down on smokers “Filthy habit…” Good people smoke. Bad people smoke. Clever people smoke and morons smoke.

So today, instead of buying cigarettes, while Mr. Woog was searching the supermarket for sunflower seeds, I got myself a gift. Some new mags to read that do not try to tell me about Karl Stefanovic’s crotch.

These magazines will do one of two things. They will make me drink tequila and cry about missing smoking or they will turn me into the best version of myself I can be, now with added skills such as flower pressing and origami. And how the fuck am I going to find my happy?

Anyway, enough blathering from me. A shout out to beautiful reader Jane who came up to me at Hoyts yesterday and congratulated me on giving up. You are awesome and that made me feel good. Thank you.

How the devil are you?