At What Point do you Finally Give in?
I think one of my worst (and at times, best) characteristics is my stubbornness. I have always been a stubborn person, not to the point that I won't back down when I know I'm wrong, but stubborn enough to know when I am right, and to fight for whatever it is I'm currently adhered to. I hit the point tonight, of knowing that I was wrong, but how to come about and admit it...Then I remembered the blog. Why not tell the world I'm an idiot instead of just the people who need to know? That exhibitionist personality appears to be coming back with a vengeance. Before we jump the gun I'm going to pull a Douglas Adam's and let everyone know what is going to come out of this entry. I don't want anyone assuming that this entry has some kind of monumental ending. It doesn't. To sum up, no one dies, I'm still not smoking, TV is still a cyclopean brain rotting device, cats are not living with dogs, cute grrl is still cute, and I'm going to be out about five hundred clams. Guess I could be a real bastard and end it here couldn't I? Nah...My ego needs to be heard. On to the revelation.
I'm sitting in my living room tonight, busily sorting through a bunch of Guitar Pro Tab I happened to find on the net and putting it into appropriate directories, and the itch starts. Only reformed smokers, real smokers, or smokers in the process of quitting will know the itch I'm talking about. When you are quitting the coffin nails, one of the ways of succeeding is through distraction. Sorting 50 000 pieces of sheet music does not constitute a distraction. It's more like a way to prepare for hell, and while you are quitting smoking it will make that 5 hour long task feel like 50 years. I'm sitting here writing batch files for making all the proper directories when the itch grabs me like some demon and whispers in my ear "a cigarette will make you relax and help you sort through all this shitty music". Enough of that shit. Off to the car to go get a coffee and something to munch on to distract me. I should mention at this point that it snowed last night...This is where I finally have to start giving in...This morning it took me about 20 minutes to get out of my complex and onto a somewhat plowed street (read as all the snow pushed to the sides by the other cars). In itself, not that deplorable. I drive a small, powerful, rear-wheel drive sports car, which turns into an ice skate in the winter, but lately it has passed the skate stage. An ice skate has some element of control. I have known that I needed new tires for a while, but that stubbornness kicked in and said wait. My car is now a rocket with no tail fins what so ever. Anyhow, back to the story.
After the experience of melting rubber and all my neighbors waving to me as I got stuck every 10 feet this morning, I figure I better check and see if it's snowing out there....and, at fate shits on me again, of course it is, but damnit, I want my coffee, and my bag of Munchos (tm). I get into the car and prepare for the worst. My brain is still somewhat fuzzy due to the quitting smoking shit so I'm not feeling bang on anyways, and I start the adventure for the coffee. It's greasy out there, but not exceptionally bad yet. I've managed to make it out of my parking lot with only 5 fishtails and press on and up. The snow is coming down in that wet sleety stuff making the roads more treacherous by the minute. They are almost at prime greasiness as I pull into the coffee shop drive through. I actually managed to get stuck in the drive through for a couple of seconds, and a rational man would have gone back home at this point, but not me. Munchos (tm) remember? Off to the grocery store. As I get to the store I get out of my car and take a look at my ass end tires. They look like cinnamon coated doughnuts...That ain't good. I see no treads, no rubber, just brown sloppy slush rings. I try to kick some of the shit off of my tire, but my foot just slides across the slicks. Damn. All good though, Just a bag of nitrates and then off to home.
Managed to get all the way home without any catastrophes, parked in the driveway for a second to catch my breath, and then open up the garage door. As soon as the door is open far enough I put the car back in drive and go to pull into my garage, and promptly start to slide sideways onto my front lawn. Damnit, damn. Reverse the car; take a run at the garage, and finally get in the garage.
So, no great conclusion to this one, or at least none that you can't see coming. Just to put everyone's mind at ease, I'm getting new tires (nemesis, wherever you are, you're gonna have to try harder). Three personal points to make here...Snowball, my tires aren't bald...They're broken in. Obi and Co. You won't have to come identify my smoking corpse on the side of the 401 because I slid off and exploded...Cute Grrl, Looks like you get your new tires. And after goldilocks tried all the beds and realized that none of them were very comfortable, she took the ball gags out of the three bears mouths and started the torture session with the soldering iron and the dremel. Eventually they all died, let’s say papa was first, and he made an awesome comforter for the bed.
I think one of my worst (and at times, best) characteristics is my stubbornness. I have always been a stubborn person, not to the point that I won't back down when I know I'm wrong, but stubborn enough to know when I am right, and to fight for whatever it is I'm currently adhered to. I hit the point tonight, of knowing that I was wrong, but how to come about and admit it...Then I remembered the blog. Why not tell the world I'm an idiot instead of just the people who need to know? That exhibitionist personality appears to be coming back with a vengeance. Before we jump the gun I'm going to pull a Douglas Adam's and let everyone know what is going to come out of this entry. I don't want anyone assuming that this entry has some kind of monumental ending. It doesn't. To sum up, no one dies, I'm still not smoking, TV is still a cyclopean brain rotting device, cats are not living with dogs, cute grrl is still cute, and I'm going to be out about five hundred clams. Guess I could be a real bastard and end it here couldn't I? Nah...My ego needs to be heard. On to the revelation.
I'm sitting in my living room tonight, busily sorting through a bunch of Guitar Pro Tab I happened to find on the net and putting it into appropriate directories, and the itch starts. Only reformed smokers, real smokers, or smokers in the process of quitting will know the itch I'm talking about. When you are quitting the coffin nails, one of the ways of succeeding is through distraction. Sorting 50 000 pieces of sheet music does not constitute a distraction. It's more like a way to prepare for hell, and while you are quitting smoking it will make that 5 hour long task feel like 50 years. I'm sitting here writing batch files for making all the proper directories when the itch grabs me like some demon and whispers in my ear "a cigarette will make you relax and help you sort through all this shitty music". Enough of that shit. Off to the car to go get a coffee and something to munch on to distract me. I should mention at this point that it snowed last night...This is where I finally have to start giving in...This morning it took me about 20 minutes to get out of my complex and onto a somewhat plowed street (read as all the snow pushed to the sides by the other cars). In itself, not that deplorable. I drive a small, powerful, rear-wheel drive sports car, which turns into an ice skate in the winter, but lately it has passed the skate stage. An ice skate has some element of control. I have known that I needed new tires for a while, but that stubbornness kicked in and said wait. My car is now a rocket with no tail fins what so ever. Anyhow, back to the story.
After the experience of melting rubber and all my neighbors waving to me as I got stuck every 10 feet this morning, I figure I better check and see if it's snowing out there....and, at fate shits on me again, of course it is, but damnit, I want my coffee, and my bag of Munchos (tm). I get into the car and prepare for the worst. My brain is still somewhat fuzzy due to the quitting smoking shit so I'm not feeling bang on anyways, and I start the adventure for the coffee. It's greasy out there, but not exceptionally bad yet. I've managed to make it out of my parking lot with only 5 fishtails and press on and up. The snow is coming down in that wet sleety stuff making the roads more treacherous by the minute. They are almost at prime greasiness as I pull into the coffee shop drive through. I actually managed to get stuck in the drive through for a couple of seconds, and a rational man would have gone back home at this point, but not me. Munchos (tm) remember? Off to the grocery store. As I get to the store I get out of my car and take a look at my ass end tires. They look like cinnamon coated doughnuts...That ain't good. I see no treads, no rubber, just brown sloppy slush rings. I try to kick some of the shit off of my tire, but my foot just slides across the slicks. Damn. All good though, Just a bag of nitrates and then off to home.
Managed to get all the way home without any catastrophes, parked in the driveway for a second to catch my breath, and then open up the garage door. As soon as the door is open far enough I put the car back in drive and go to pull into my garage, and promptly start to slide sideways onto my front lawn. Damnit, damn. Reverse the car; take a run at the garage, and finally get in the garage.
So, no great conclusion to this one, or at least none that you can't see coming. Just to put everyone's mind at ease, I'm getting new tires (nemesis, wherever you are, you're gonna have to try harder). Three personal points to make here...Snowball, my tires aren't bald...They're broken in. Obi and Co. You won't have to come identify my smoking corpse on the side of the 401 because I slid off and exploded...Cute Grrl, Looks like you get your new tires. And after goldilocks tried all the beds and realized that none of them were very comfortable, she took the ball gags out of the three bears mouths and started the torture session with the soldering iron and the dremel. Eventually they all died, let’s say papa was first, and he made an awesome comforter for the bed.
posted by Reverend Moloquin at 11:22 PM
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