Yes, I Stopped Smoking, You Fuckin' Fuck, and Cher Wants You to Piss Off.



Hoo boy.
Days one thru three without cigarettes just left me weak and shaky, but I woke up this morning grouchy, mean and ready (as I told my pal Helen Wheels) to go look in the street gutters for old butts to smoke.
By noon I was gnawing my way through a huge ham and Swiss sandwich and wondering what my snack would be an hour later, and I snapped.
I finally got around to loading my new iPod, which is actually an old iPod I traded my lover-in-law for my new iTouch which was always too fucking complicated for me.
Remember when I first got the iTouch and some anonymous commenter said something snippy about my inability to deal with all the doodads on it? Yeah, well, fuck you, I was right.
So I got the new-old one loaded and discovered I had no earbuds.
I tried to lie down but I was fitful, got up, ate a handful of trail mix, tried to Blog, chewed two pieces of Nicorette (park and rest, my ass)then I bolted out of my chair and knew I had to leave the house immediately.
Since my hair had gotten really really bushy and long, I thought I'd go get it cut. My regular homosexual Ruben was off today, so I picked his pal Mike instead. Mike is a smart-ass queen who listened to what I wanted, then told me, "Fine, but I'll cut it any fucking way I want."
I said, "That's fine, but if you fuck it up you'll be dealing with a dyke who just stopped smoking and I'll cut a bitch."
So he says, "I still smoke and you make me want to light one now."
After bickering for another few minutes while he was snipping away, he puts his shears down and says, "What do you think?"
So I put on my glasses, looked in the mirror and said, "Oh, thank you for making me look like the lead bull dagger in a lesbian prison movie, you woman-hating fudge packer."
He looked a little surprised, so I said, "Look, Whitney, I told you I was self employed and I cannot get fired, so how about letting my fuckin' freak flag fly a little?"
He got it, finally, and I left with quite the mess of spikes, gashes and sprigs.
So I came home, still inconsolable, but I did have a brand new set of earbuds to try out.
So I laid in my little bed and start blasting my playlist, which consists mainly of music you might find at any mid-80's gay bar.
In spite of my grotesque withdrawal symptoms and general feelings of hopelessness, that goddamn Cher and her song "Believe" made me start tapping my foot. Then I got up and started moving just a little. Then I stuffed the iPod into my jeans pocket, moved to the living room and actually started dancing.
Before I knew it, I actually had enough energy to drag myself to the computer and Blog.
The only trouble with dancing to gay bar music is wanting a drink and a cigarette afterwards. And so it goes.