Speak, memory:on wine with Russians and the quest for dreamless sleep

(I regret the title of this post as it implies I will and/or should do justice to the author from whom I’ve appropriated.  Well, eradicate that notion immediately, as I did, because to even aspire to such levels of grandeur is absurd.  I did just quit smoking, afterall.  I try to aim low, as any further blow to self, any small ego incision may cause a most regrettable relapse.  Therefore, don’t expect grammatical miracles or syntactical fanfare.)

So my friend had a Russian on his couch for the week.  Ksenya-who much to a certain unnamed person’s dismay, was not a femme fatale spy in black, nor did she smoke or drink vodka.  In fact, she preferred Jack and coke. This may seem altogether disappointing, but in fact, did not diminish my enjoyment of her company in the least.  She was quite reserved, as would be expected given language barrier and the nature of my garrulous and eccentric friends, not to mention the usual loud bar scenes that served as our ambiance.  When she did warm up to me, her sweetness was evidenced in a certain wide-eyed frankness, and although I gleaned about 75% of the content of our conversation, it was of substance and quality.  What I remember the most was our discussion of Russian literature and my attempts at subtly bringing politics into the conversation.  She told me that she did not have the best memory of details and facts, but remembered in terms of feeling-how she felt when she read or experienced a certain thing.  I found this beautiful.  Perhaps it was her accent, the wine, her exoticness as other, but I remembered the next day.

This has nothing to do with smoking, or not smoking, or sex or starvation.  It just seemed worthy of mention. And I can write about whatever the fuck I want to.

The quest for dreamless sleep begins tonite.  After last night’s Taiwanese teen drama induced anxiety dreams I can no longer bear the brunt of the patch nocturnally.  And I haven’t had any sex dreams since week one, so what’s the point anyway?

Soon to come: post-quitting patch sex: pros and cons

Other means of hedonism

Smoking takes a lot of time-it’s a regular clock fucking succubus.  I realize, now that I cannot sit around chain smoking and drinking vodka, that I no longer watch television, clean more, go outside more and  participate in “alternative” activities that were previously not prevalent in my life such as yoga, cosmetic experimentation, back stretching and auto-erotic exploration.

Another crazily unfortunate, yet predictable phenomena is the lessening of my alcoholic intake.  As someone who enthusiastically drank one to five drinks per day on average, I did not anticipate this sudden decline in desire.  It’s like sex with no foreplay or foreplay with no sex, slightly painful and pointless, yet somehow you find yourself lying on your back again, really wanting a fucking cigarette.

These discoveries have led to the rekindling of an old flame, the tawdry clove.  I used to like cloves when I was fifteen and wore ripped fishnets and black lipstick.  Now I think they have a relatively pleasant smell, albeit one that reminds me of fetish stores, and taste pretty shitty.  Since they are not cigarettes, and taste nothing like cigarettes, it is completely permissible for me to have one now and again in order to not go completely schitzo and attempt strangling my roommate.  Which, I do sincerely apologize for last night, Jamie, it was all in jest. 

One thing I’m not doing enough of that I really want be doing more of is unadulterated fucking.  This is mostly my fault as well as circumstantial, but it sucks and must end soon.  In terms of my list of replacement activities, I would say that is the only one that has fallen to the wayside.  I aim to remedy that as soon as possible and will update you, my loyal reader, tomorrow.

Day 4: Dirt, Despair and Disney Porn

I smelled dirt for the first time in the city today.  This excited me far more than most anticipated.  It happened at approximately 9.03AM on the corner of 35th and 10th Ave, about 2 minutes after I perceived a parked vehicle backing up, when in fact it was stationery and driver-less.  This was the result of an odd dizziness and surreal disposition accompanied by a feverish sort of state.  I assumed all of this was due to the viral infection/flu-like illness that began on Day 2.  It wasn’t.  My oddly exotic and nebulously aged Eastern European doctor called to inform me of another infection-the dark horse masquerading behind flu-like virus #1.  This #2 was a stealthy bastard and the sum total of my ailments was raised yet again.  Alas, the triumvirate:

1) nicotine withdrawal (fuck you, the patch barely enables me to function on a decent human level)

2) respiratory viral infection #1 (sore throat, stuffy nose, aches)

3) dark horse virus #2

I finally arrived home with my meds when that fucking furry little demon revealed herself.  Well, she revealed her excrement, smeared it, probably ate some, smeared again, then ran about gleefully.  Also, upon my arrival pissed on my foot.  I instinctively reached for my cigarettes, which OOPS don’t FUCKING exist…

This brings about a flashback from the night of Day 2 when I was washing the dishes, which now has become a means for me to relieve aggression, and crushed a wine glass in my hand.  Not purposefully, but all the same rewarding.

Flash forward to 9.07PM tonight.  I’m eating blue cheese and chili chips, my roommate is feeding me ice cream and while we wait for Battlestar Galactica to load she decides to unleash Disney Porn onto my frail psyche.  I saw Goofy’s dick.  This is my life.  Hello.

The Patch: Unlocking the Secret World of Bizarro Sex Dreams

Don’t get excited, the patch won’t get you laid.  Well, at least not in the obvious way.  It will, however, unlock a certain cellar door of the psyche that perhaps should remain as is, ultimately ignored.

The patch has not gotten me laid, but through no fault of its own.  I’ve been holed up for 48 hours in a bathrobe watching Battlestar Galactica and Korean dramas such as “Brown Sugar Mochacinno” (actual title) , bemoaning my nonsmoking existence with a bag of pretzels and some pepperoncinis .  The pretzels only lasted approximately 6 hours.  My utter lameness-well, I wouldn’t say has ended per se, but significantly improved when I showered and put on actual clothing.

The first night:  3 sex dreams all involving persons I will not disclose for embarrassing as well as socio-political reasons.  In one instance a mother of one of these persons was in the dream, admonishing me for whatever the hell I was doing with her son, which I’ve managed to nearly repress.  The other dreams are nicely foggy as well-but vivid enough the morning of Day 2 for me to definitely wake to thoughts such as “WTF!”.  Also, half asleep at approximately 4.30AM I started molesting my boyfriend, still partially in the dream.  That was odd, in the least.  Sorry, baby.

Night 2:  The one that stands out most clearly involves poker.  The game, not the tool.  I should add that details in patch-induced dreams are prevalent, colors as well.  They tend to be epic and memorable and, in my case, invoke oddities of the past that I haven’t recalled in quite some time.  This, when spun in a sexual manner, can be extremely unpalatable.  So, back to the dream… I was kicking ass in poker.  The cards were black and glossy as were all the chips.  After this I was somehow outside with a very tall, dark man wearing an elaborate headdress and little else.  He spoke to me of certain sexual slavery practices and his opposition to them.  Then we had hot, dirty sex on a dirt road.  Actually, that last part didn’t happen, I woke up…Ok, so night 2’s dream was kind of lame, but I did win in poker.

Seeing as it is 4.12AM I should be getting to bed.

Sweet Dreams.

vomiting vitamins and battling brixton

Day 2

Perhaps the onset of flu-like symptoms is something I should have embraced this morning.  After all, a sore throat is pretty much the best one can ask for in terms of anti-smoking fodder, especially this early on in the battle.  Therefore, when I woke up feeling as if I had in fact had that long sought after love affair with a brick wall, I was slightly relieved.  Miserable in bed versus miserable at work…exactly.

Then there was Brixton.  Two piles of shit, a mostly digested envelope, a shredded receipt and about one square foot of bathroom floor annihilated.  There are various smoking triggers: stress, anger, depression, joy, pain, boredom i.e the entire spectrum of goddamn human emotion and experience.  This was multi-triggering quite a few.  A bottle of orange juice, some chicken soup and only one small creature’s death later, I feel a bit calmer.

Soon to come:  The Patch: Unlocking the Secret World of Bizarro Sex Dreams

and thus it begins…

Five hours and seven minutes without a cigarette.

Today I noticed that everyone smokes between Eighth and Ninth Ave.  Aside from the desire and need to projectile vomit upon my computer screen or any human being who accidentally touches me, I feel pretty damn crappy.  I’ve decided what a few of my “replacement” activities will be.  Please note as follows:

-yoga

-spicy pickles

-pretzels

-bondage

-porn knowledge cultivation

-sleep

-sex

-battlestar galactica

This list will most likely expand as well as subside as time passes.  Also, in dire situations of desperation I may create any unique combination of aforementioned activities. It is after all only Day 1. A ten and a half fucking year love affair with something that was never even alive.  More silent and hollow than a ghost and more loving than any human.  My longest and most dedicated relationship is over as of 7.03AM today. I  certainly reserve the right to go kicking and screaming as well as spit in a few eyes.