The more things change

It's been... uh... 989 days since I had a cigarette, or even a puff of one.

I want one now. A therapist I used to have would say that I have a bad case of the fuckitalls. You know - those days where you just want to wear all black, listen to loud angry rock, and push old ladies into traffic. Well, maybe not that last part.

You just want to give the finger to society. If you have a bad habit, you indulge in it for its momentary relief. If you had a bad habit, you'll be tempted to pick it up again. If you never had any bad habits, well, you probably aren't going to be inflicted with this syndrome anyway.

I have journals dating back to age 12. I had the fuckitalls nearly constantly, to varying degrees, from ages 12-27. That's a long fucking time and I'm lucky I didn't do any permanent damage. Honestly, I think the only thing that saved me was that none of my friends did drugs, and I wasn't streetsmart enough to go search them out.

I was single the vast majority of that time, and it's easier to deal with it then, because there's no one around to take it personally or reflect your anger back on you (of course, there's also no one to catch you when you fall). I have great difficulty showing this side of myself, because I don't want people to worry. I've made it through far, far worse, and my moodiness is not their burden.

Yet, I am the kind who wears her heart on her sleeve, so when I'm not happy, everyone knows it. What people want is some sort of explanation I can't give. The fuckitalls, by definition, are completely irrational. I can't draw a diagram and show how A progressed to B which caused C. It doesn't really matter how I got to C. It's all damage control now. It's all about seeking shelter from the storm. You can't stop the rain. You can stop standing in the middle of the street.

I like this apartment. Thick walls suitable for blasting music, and no one below us to complain.

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