Today marks 4 weeks since I decided to stop being nicotine's bitch, and since my family is completely unaware that I've smoked for the last decade I can't really brag about this accomplishment to them. Yes, I'm 29 years old and I still hide shit from my mother. Don't pretend you don't do it, too, and if you don't, well aren't you just a paragon of maturity and also shut up.
I quit cold turkey, which seems to be the way to go, but that third day was...special. Very, very special. The best way to describe to you how special is to say that at some point I realized I was sobbing my guts out over pancake batter, and I still don't know exactly how I got there. My husband came into the kitchen to be supportive and I immediately went from suicidal, sobbing, blackout depression to a red rage that made me want to stab everything that ever was, ever.
I decided it was a good time to get out of the kitchen. Because that's where I keep the knives.
You will be happy to hear that I am still married and I did not actually stab anything. I may have THROWN something and I may or may not have had several conniption fits that would put even the worst behaved toddler to shame, but no one's dead. I'm calling it a win.