I like it when I can feel it all coming back together. The effortless steadiness, the lack of silent cries for a cessation, most of all the constant knowledge that yes, there is a little more there. And all this with a heavy, heavy workload. More voluntary volume and velocity than I have even attempted in more than a year.
What? What's he talking about? The broken dishwasher? He's washing up a lot? He washes up really fast? Fucking hell, this is even boringer than the avocuntingcados.
No, I wash up really slowly.
What? I'm confused. I'm bored. I want a cigarette. I want some smack, some crack, a rub on the back.
We're discussing exercise.
Oh. That's not much better.
If I may?
Go on then.
Thank you. Last week I ran twice. I cycled to work four times. 80k. Peanuts of course, but more peanuts than I've shelled in many a month. And I ran. Ran for 25 minutes, twice. Really fucking slowly but reasonably comfortably. Did maybe 10k in total. Weird to be covering that distance on foot. Lifted the big boys in pump. Progressively stronger in the week's seven spin.
Would you get to the fucking point?
I stopped smoking. There you go. I don't know why the fuck I started again, (I do) but I now know that I've stopped. I didn't mention it before for fear of the jinxiness. But I pretty much knew when I woke up on Monday that it was doable, oh yeah, I could do this shit again. And I did. And I feel good for it. In fact I feel so good that I think the best course of action is to wait another seven years and then start again just so I can get another hit off this happy, smug, newly non-smoking high. But then I'm thinking there's no way this energy and hideous positivity can last for seven weeks, let alone seven years. Fuck it, maybe I'll just start again now. Bum a smoke, dude?