So my run times have been a bit high recently despite a good exercise routine. My last mile and a half was fourteen minutes flat. Epically weak for Marine standards. My recruiter told me last Thursday, and I quote:
"Snodgrass, I swear to God if you don't pick up your retard-slow pace I'm going to feed you month-old, sour milk and make you run the IST (initial strength test, mile and a half run is part of it) before you can use the s***er."
F***. That doesn't sound fun.
I looked at everything I could do to improve my run time. Run everyday? Check. Work on lower body strength? Check. Pray to Shiva to smite my terrible cardiovascular health? Check. The only thing left that I could think of was... quitting smoking.
'It can't be that bad.' I told myself as I smoked my last cigarette twelve hours ago. 'Mind over matter. If I don't mind, it don't matter.' I've never realized how much bulls*** fertilizes that statement until about ten hours ago.
First two hours went fine. I didn't even want one of those delicious, aromatic wonder-sticks, let alone need one.
Hour three came along fine, at first. Then I started to hear something funny. I was breathing, but I wasn't wheezing. Cool! Then I heard something stranger.
"Nicotine!" Came a soft voice from right behind me.
I turned around to face the back of my room with the Watchmen poster of The Comedian smoking a large cigar.
"Smoke!" Came another, harsher voice from my right.
I turned and saw nothing but an old, empty pack of camels.
'I'm going f***ing insane' I thought to myself as I surfed the internet for something to distract my addict mind. Midget porn would have to suffice.
I opened up a page labeled "Teens love Tripods" and marveled at the little men and gorgeous girls. Something about women with addictions worse than mine and more daddy issues than Marvin Gaye really makes me feel better about myself. Everything was good until I heard another strange sound.
"Hey, could you take out the trash?"
I turned around quickly, almost falling out of my chair. It was my mother standing innocently in the doorway, trying very hard to divert her eyes from the Gimli gang bang on the screen.
"God f***ing dammit, mom! Who the hell do you think you are! Why would I..."
That's when I realized that I don't even like midgets, let alone when they hook up with hotter girls than I've ever talked to in my life. Also, that quitting smoking was tougher than I expected.
I apologized and exited Firefox. My mom and I also came to an agreement never to talk about what had just happened... ever. Oops.
As I was taking the trash out (my mom had so thoughtfully decided to clean out my ashtray for me, thanks!) I was assaulted with what I would call a withdraw-falcon-punch. Every fiber of my body urged me to dig into that trash bag and light up an old butt. The neurons in my head screamed for nicotine. I honestly would have eaten tobacco if I had access to a plant, or even just a few leaves.
I finally throw the delicious-smelling refuse in the garbage when something hits me in the shoulder out of the blue.
"Sorry mister, can we have our ball back?"
How f***ing cute. Two little boys playing football in the street. Those little s***s were lucky I'm not as much of a raging psychopath as my imagination can be. I swear to God that the first thing that popped into my head was taking the little snot-nosed brat by his hair and violently ripping his head from his shoulders. Then I was going to buy his mother some dandruff shampoo at his funeral and just say 'Get it?' with a sick grin.
After about a minute of blankly staring at the kid while my mind was on a murder-vacation, I picked up the ball and threw it as far as I could. Incidentally that wasn't very far because my body was weak from the lack of nicotine fuel. The kids just laughed as they ran the thirty feet to where the ball had landed. I think one of them even called me a p****.
After all of this ridiculousness I finally came to terms with the fact that quitting smoking is actually hard. Really hard. I have since locked myself in my room with about four hundred tooth picks and as much soda and junk food as I can eat. They said smoking would kill me, but I honestly think I might just glutton myself to death. (That's right, I used 'glutton' as a verb... f*** off.)
It isn't all that bad though. I'm hardly wheezing, which is good. I also don't smell like cigarettes. (Just the normal smell of un-bathed heathen.) And I didn't have to buy a pack today saving about six-hundred dollars. (Go sin tax!) It really won't take that long to quit, either! Only my whole f***ing life to go!
I should have torn that kids head off, I hear you can smoke as much as you want in prison.
If you enjoyed this piece, leave a comment! If not, I hate you. Also, just to save face, I don't really look at midget porn... often. I would also never condone killing anyone by decapitation... unless they're a zombie. If you do run into any zombies though, feel free to message me and I will bring the cheese-whiz and shotgun shells.
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