The day, when it came, was just like any other day. I hugged and kissed my mister. Sat at the table over lunch and laughed at his jokes. Admired his face. Made plans for next week. Laid down open under him and told him he was the only one, that my pussy was his.

On the surface I was just like any other woman actively loving her man. But one corner of my brain was on Him. Knowing I would see Him. Plotting what to wear, planning what to say to get away. Taking care to shower in between so I would be fresh for Him. Just in case, I told myself. As if I didn’t know what was going to happen. As if cheating was not a foregone conclusion.

On my way to Him I was hot all over. Hot with shame, hot with nerves, hot with wetness and anticipation. My mouth dry, my heart pounding, I was as clumsy and inarticulate as I’ve ever been. Just as His face had flashed behind my eyes all morning as I prepared, now all I saw when I looked at Him was the face of my mister; trusting and open as a baby. My mister who would never in a million years think I was on my way to lie down with another man. My mister who would be crushed if he ever found out.

They say that when you’re dying you see your whole life flashing by you. But did you know that when you’re about to cheat your whole relationship flashes by? You see how you met, when you knew he was the one for you. You hear him telling you he loves you for the first time. You see your future; the plans you’ve made, the wedding you daydream about, the children you hope to have. You see everything and you’re so filled with love for your mister that you think you might burst with it.

But that doesn’t stop you. Or at least it didn’t stop me. For me it seemed that cheating was a train I’d long since boarded. No stops, no layovers, no refunds. And so on and on I rode toward the meanest and worst thing I’d ever done with only one thought in my mind: if he finds out, he will leave you.

I walked in there completely torn. Half believing that there was still a chance that this could be nothing more than a friendly visit. But knowing that I was really there to fuck. Mentally reviewing my list of justifications – “my mister doesn’t pay me enough attention. Him and I have unfinished business. I’m not wired to be monogamous and besides, monogamy is nothing but societal brainwashing. This has nothing to do with my mister. It’s not taking anything away from him. He’ll never know. This has nothing to do with us”.  And beneath all of that is the deafening voice of my conscience screaming “You’re cheating. You’re cheating! You’re CHEATING!”.

And all of a sudden I knew. I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to be there, with Him. I wanted the earth to swallow me up and put my back next to my mister where I belonged.

But I was there and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I didn’t want to be the cheating girl, but I didn’t want to be that girl either. The one who talks big but doesn’t follow through. The cock tease. I didn’t want to jeopardize all I had with my mister but I didn’t want to lose Him either.

And so I began to bargain. With God, with the universe, with the holy spirit. With whoever or whatever was listening out there. With whoever or whatever could tell me which side of my brain I should be listening to – the side that wanted Him so badly or the side that warned me that I was sacrificing too much to have Him. I said to myself “if He doesn’t have a condom, that’s a sign I shouldn’t do this” but He did. And so I said “if my phone rings in the next five minutes, it means I should stop”. But my phone was stubbornly silent. And on I went; asking for signs that I should stop. And in the absence of them, believing it meant I should continue.

The truth is, a part of me resented my mister for letting me get this far. For not being careful enough with me. For leaving cracks in our relationship that He could worm his way into. For not noticing that something was up with me beneath my clumsy facade. For not calling or texting me at the exact moment that he could have stopped me.  In a way that I know now was completely fucked up, I blamed my mister for what I was doing. For not protecting me from my own lust and stupidity.

And then He was on me. Stroking me. Moving me. Pulling me to Him, parting my legs. Making me moan even as I tried not to like it. Tried to keep my mind focused on my mister at home waiting for me. It was good when I wanted it to be bad. I wanted to stop as I wanted it to go on and on.

Then there was the moment. Every cheater knows the moment. Just after you’ve quieted your racing mind and succumbed to what is happening. Just as you begin to pant and moan. Just when you decide to forget the moral implications of what you’re doing and surrender to the feeling; there is a moment. Your brain becomes totally clear. The lust dries up. You look at Him, you look at yourself, you look around you and you see just how wrong you are and the guilt crashes over you like a tidal wave. It’s the moment in the movies when the hero or heroine jumps up, hastily shoves their clothes back on, and runs out the door with a hurried “I’m sorry. I can’t do this” tossed over their shoulder.

But this was my real life and there was no stopping. No jumping up and flinging on clothes. With dogged determination I put my head down and finished what I started; figuring that every bad feeling I was having – the shame, the disgust, the fear, the guilt – was the least I deserved for the wrong I was doing. I grit my teeth and prepared to suffer through the rest of it. But still I liked it. I moaned. I panted. I came.

When it was over I went back to my mister; freshly washed and smiling. There were no anguished faces when I thought he wasn’t looking at me. No long suspicious silences to make him ask me what was wrong. I didn’t drop hints or assemble a council of girlfriends to dissect what I’d done and pinpoint the reason why. I didn’t call Him and say “I love my mister so this can never happen again”. I didn’t confess. I didn’t do any of the things that cheaters do to make themselves feel better. I worked. I lived my life. I loved my mister. And while I eventually told people that I cheated, I never told anyone what it was really like. Until now.

Anyone feel me?

Related posts:

1. The Soul of a Cheater

Hints, tips, and motivation

First, for those of you who are new or too lazy to check out last year’s post, let’s recap the principles of the Max Workout Plan:

1. You need a reason to believe. Something that will be easier to do if you’re in shape (like sex), an outfit you want to fit into, a one time man you want to stunt on, whatever works.
2. Do it and shut up about it. The more time you spend tweeting about your workouts, the less time you spend working out.
5. Find something you like to do. If you don’t know what that is, keep reading.
6.  Wear skimpy, slutty workout clothes and look in the mirror all the time. If you look like someone’s fat aunty in them, that will motivate you to work harder. If you look smoking hot in them, it will motivate you to keep going. It’s a win-win.
7. Track your progress. You’ll be so amazed by how much stronger and smaller you are that you’ll want to keep going just to keep amazing yourself.

If my random-ass tips don’t work for you, fret not. The internets are filled with posts about fitness. I like FitSugar, which has about 9 billion articles and videos about everything you need to know about fitness.

When I need to get my ass in gear I always head to my homey Streetzie’s site. Streetz is a workout machine yet still refuses to let anyone see the six pack we all just know is hiding beneath his clothes and chronicles his fitness journey in an honest, entertaining, non-ego maniacal way. Like me he has a job and a blog and a life to tend to and yet unlike me, he still manages to get it in. His workouts, I mean. I don’t know what else he may or may not be getting in.

Fish don’t fry in the kitchen

Or some other expression that means that if you want a hot body it starts with the food you eat. This is my big struggle and why if you follow me on twitter you saw many tweets yesterday about me attempting to choke down a protein shake. If you want to see real progress – especially in a hurry – you need to eat clean.

Free workouts abound

Despite the growing mountain of fitness equipment in my apartment, I’m of the opinion that you don’t need to spend a dime to get in shape. Except maybe on your slutty workout gear. The universe is full of uber-fit people who are willing to share their expertise with the great flabby masses and all they ask in return is that you get up off your duff and do a workout. Here are some of my faves:

Nike Training Club App: This is my go-to workout tool. It’s filled with ass-kicking workouts that answer whatever fitness need you might have in anywhere from 15 – 45 minutes. It’s for iPhone only (as far as I know) but a lot of their moves are on YouTube so you can piece yourself together a nice little playlist.

FitVillains: I love this site. It’s run by a Montreal personal trainer named Chichi Kix. She’s supernice and her body is ridic and you can tell she really cares about helping people get fit in a healthy way. She posts a couple of workouts a week and they will kick your ass all up and down your living room. My favourites are Girls with Guns and Booty Murder. There’s also a very extensive Q&A section on the site to help you solve your burning fitness dilemmas. Check her out solving mine here.

BodyRock.tv: This is the mother of all fitness sites. It’s full of free workout videos that are short and intense and effective. All of the hosts have those ridiculous bodies that you think you can never get, but they all got them just by doing the BodyRock workouts. If you are a pussy like me you will watch them and say “oh HELL no” but give it a shot. There’s a limit to how much damage you can do to yourself in 12 minutes or less.

QuickieChick.com: This is for you lazy/time-strapped folks out there. She has workouts you can do without even getting out of bed!

Or choose a DVD to get your (flabby) ass in gear

Free workout sites are awesome, but they do require a fair amount of digging to find what you need. Not exactly an ideal situation if your motivation is precarious. If you want to just work out without thinking about your workout, DVD’s are your friend. Here are some of my faves:

Chalean Extreme: Some people call this P90X for chicks. Some people say it’s even harder than P90X. Here’s what I say: the shit works. I got most of my definition from doing this program (despite my woefully protein-deficient diet) and felt like a badass when I was done. If you like lifting weights – especially heavy ones – this is for you.

Jillian Michaels: She may be a psycho bitch, but her workouts work. I tell everyone who asks me how to get started to try the 30 Day Shred. It’s 20 minutes long but the shit works. Once you master that, you move on to Ripped in 30. Which totally lived up to its title for me. And all her workouts are like that. They’re short but they get shit done.  Then you move on to Extreme Shed & Shred, which will make you gargle your heart. In a good way. This one also features a move I like to call “legal torture” but is actually called one-legged mountain climbers. Which I promised my friend @_chunk_ I would demonstrate for her ages ago. So check me out here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yb8Hms6R9iM

Even her yoga workout is an ass kicker. I love this bish I swear.

Fitspiration

If you’re like me, a little visual stimulation goes a long way towards getting me up and working out. So if gazing avariciously at the bodies of people who are in way better shape than you are is your thing, get on tumblr and dig around the fitspiration tag. Or you can cut to the chase and check out my bodyenvy board on pinterest. This stuff works for me, but please don’t blame me if looking at these pictures causes irreparable damage to your self-esteem.

If all else fails, at least work your abs

This is the advice that Snickers gave me 15 years ago and it still holds true for me today. Abs are best worked intensely for short periods of time so if you can’t squeeze anything else into your day, you at least have time for abs. Also for me my abs show definition the fastest, so it’s a good place to start – once you see results there you want to keep going so you can see them everywhere. My favourite site for ab workouts is Random Abs – it gives you a different ab workout every day. They’re short but they BURN.

And there you have it – this year’s tips to help you get ready to stunt on heaux (or bros – I think these are gender-agnostic tips) this summer. But what about you guys? Are you ready for summer or do you need a little boost like me? What are your favourite tips for getting in shape? Speak your piece in the comments.

No related posts.

What I said: “Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat?!?”
What I thought: “So what you’re basically saying is, you don’t get head.”

He went on to explain that he doesn’t shave his chest hair so there’s no point shaving his balls & trail. If you’re hairy up top, he says, then in looks weird to suddenly be hairless down below. According to him, you can’t do one without the other.

This blew my fucking mind. Not because it’s necessarily so smart – the jury’s still out on that – but because I had truly never thought about this before. There’s actually a really good reason for this, but it’s very un-PC and you guys will judge me if I tell you what it is.

My theory on manscaping has always been very simple: Do it. Or yes please. There is no reason for you to have your woman choking or pulling hair out of her teeth when she’s trying to do you a solid, you get what I’m saying? Handle the top, handle the balls, and while you’re at it, handle the crack too. There is no good reason for a man to allow his money spot to be cluttered up with wiry unsightly hair. ESPECIALLY if my shit is bald as a whistle.

However I have no such policy on chest hair. I’m not mad at it and have been known idly run my fingers through it once or twice in my life. Whether it’s a little or a lot, chest hair is okay in my book. And the truth is I can kinda see old dude’s point. If you have chest heair that leads down to your treasure trail, which leads down to your money spot, it probably does look weird as fuck to have the hair abruptly stop. I get that.

Trouble is that I can also see that men have an uncanny ability to rationalize their way out of normal considerate behaviour. And could there be a better way to scam yourself out of grooming your privates?  Not that I can think of. So maybe that statement was just that dude trying to rationalize his bush.

I’m torn. I want to believe but part of me is convinced this guy is just trying to get one leg over on me.  And I .don’t want to buy it,

So as ever I put it to you dear readers. Do you agree with homeboy here that if you’re um, depilating the money spot you also have to deplilate the rest. Or do you have a firm – no hair on your dick, balls, or anything down there policy like mine? Speak your piece in the comments.

No related posts.

Either way, believe me when I tell you that even though I wasn’t writing in the blog, I was thinking about it. And talking about it. And making plans for my return to it. And the one big takeaway from all that thinking is that it’s time for some changes around here.

When I started this blog I was footloose and fancy-free. Single and proud and never to be locked down again. Thinking like a man and fucking like a porn star. And – this is a key point here so pay attention – I was unemployed.  And then when I wasn’t unemployed I was underemployed. So I had a life that was conducive to the kind of blog this was.

Thing is, these days not much of that is true. I still fuck like a porn star, but I don’t have the kind of life that allows me to tell you all about it in minute detail anymore. I don’t have oceans of time to be writing 750 words 5 days a week. But what I do still have is some shit to say.

So let’s consider this phase deux of max-logic.com. I don’t know yet what form that will take, but we’re definitely turning over a new leaf around here. We might go a bit heavier on the relationships and lighter on the dating. There will probably be less Nasty Fridays (but I’ve fixed the site so you’re now able to scroll through all the past ones when you need your motor revved) and more tips on how to be awesome in your life. There might be five posts a week, or maybe just one really good one. Who knows? But know this: no matter what, I will still be lawless.

I will also be way more open to having guest posts or maybe even regular contributors on here so if you’re interested, hit me up at max@max-logic.com and let’s talk. I don’t pay, but I’ll appreciate the fuck out of you. And in case you’re wondering why anyone would want to write a guest post for a site that is clearly past its prime, let me reassure you: I took this blog from zero to 100K visits per month in the first year when no one knew who the fuck I was. Believe you me this blog will be great again.

To those of you who have stuck with me through these last rocky months, I appreciate you. Your tweets and emails asking for posts mean a lot. Especially the one reader in particular who hits me up every single week without fail to make sure I’m still alive. To those of you who abandoned me, I understand. I hope you give me another chance. I have some exciting stuff I’m dying to talk about.

To whet your appetite just a bit, here are some of the posts you’ll see on here in the next few weeks:

I got good dick and a good job

How to make the best scrambled eggs ever. Seriously.

Fuck what you heard, making a man jealous is good for business

Shit no one ever tells you about being in a relationship

I’m not a lesbian, I just like girls

Tell me you’re not excited to read that shit.

Stay tuned!

xo
max

No related posts.

All my life I’ve wanted to marry a Chuck Bass. For as long as I can remember, my idea of an ideal marriage is one in which I had to handle my man.Because he didn’t operate like a normal human being. I always wanted a relationship where I was my man’s island – the only thing in his life he could trust to be true. A relationship where I had to work overtime to give him what he needs but I was rewarded with undying love and ferocious protection. A relationship that from the outside in looked completely fucked up but from the inside felt like we’d invented love.

When I look back at the three important relationships in my past, I see now that I was looking for the Black Canadian version of Chuck Bass but falling painfully short. They did a bang up job on the complicated/asshole/requiring handling part, but fell crashingly down on the  undying love and ferocious protection part. And maybe that’s because a man (or a woman) who requires so much management is inherently selfish and therefore congenitally incapable of providing that kind of love in return.

At any rate, as I watched episode after episode of Jenny’s raccoon eyes, Blair’s scheming, and Vanessa’s imposing her lofty moral standards on everyone around her, I got antsy and rolled my eyes so much I’m surprised they didn’t get stuck. Until Chuck came on the scene and then my day was instantly brightened. Even as I watched Blair cry oceans of tears over the fucked up shit he did, I never stopped wanting them to be together (fuck that prince!).

I wonder though whether a relationship with a man like Chuck is truly sustainable. Although I really believe that some people were born to be lovers and others were born to be loved, life with a man like Chuck is fucking exhausting. The  longest I lasted with any of my pseudo-Chucks was 3 years; is there a woman alive who can last a lifetime with a man who requires constant vigilance?

In case you’re wondering, my current Mr. Max couldn’t be any farther from a Chuck Bass. In fact if anyone’s a Chuck in our relationship, it’s me.  And while it’s refreshingly enjoyable to be with someone who doesn’t have to be monitored like a flight risk, I do sometimes wonder what kind of man I’d end up with if he were to suddenly disappear. Would I resume my quest for a real world Chuck Bass? Return to a life of having to be careful and indulgent and solicitous and put myself second all the time? Or is that kind of relationship only appealing until you’ve experienced something different?

I don’t know. But what I do know is this: Chuck Bass could get it from me. 99 different ways.

But what do you guys think? Do you see the appeal in a complicated asshole like Chuck Bass, or do you prefer the emotional balance of the Dan Humphrey’s of the world? Speak on it in the comments.

No related posts.

But there is one good thing that has come from my sleep deprivation – in the midst of thinking that a toothache is without a doubt the worst thing ever; my mind wandered over to other horrible experiences that make me seriously consider flinging myself off my balcony. And whammo! A post topic!

Sidebar: About 87% of the reason I hardly post anymore is that I feel like I have nothing to write about. (The other 14% is of course laziness) So if you have any ideas, shoot em over to me.

And so without further preamble, I give you my top 5 fates worse than death. Besides toothaches.

1. Overused grammatical errors.

A long time ago I was the supervisor of a sales team. My boss and I used to have many, many meetings with the Account Managers that worked under us. And at the end of every.single.fucking.meeting she would say “If you have any questions, let Maxine or I know”.

I really liked that boss, but honestly every time she said that I wanted to punch her in her fucking craw. Because it was just so…ridiculous. I understand that for some people the whole me/I thing can be confusing. I mean, it seems perfectly simple to me, but I suppose I can see where people who struggle with it are coming from and take some common mistakes with a grain of salt. But that right there? That shit doesn’t even sound right.  I just knew she was saying it because all the grammatical subtleties of I vs. me boiled down to one simple thought in her puss brain: smart people say I, dumb people say me. Which of course is the dumbest thing of all. And it just made me want to kick over her trashcan. (Hi Dr. J!)

2. A smell I can’t stand

This past weekend my sister and went home to London to visit the parentals. It’s a trip I’ve done so many times I feel like I know the landscape of the 401 between London and Toronto as well as I know the contours of my own face. I’m sure you guys know how it is – you could blindfold me, drive me around in circles for an hour, and drop me off on the side of the road anywhere along the way and I’d instantly be able to tell you where I am. All of which is to say that the trip is old hat. But there’s one thing about it that just flattens me every time: the inevitable manure stink that assults my noseholes about 40 minutes outside of London.

I don’t know – nor do I care to imagine – what in the entire holy fuck goes on in the town we’re driving through when the attack strikes. But I do know this: for the 10 minutes or so that it takes to get through it I want to stab myself in the eye. Wait – no. In the nostril. Just on the off chance that the smell of the kinfe’s blade will momentarily outweight the stench of ripe manure. Because there are few fates worse than desperately searching your person and your surroundings for something else you can sniff deeply in order to replace the odour that is befouling your nasal linings.

3. An annoying voice that won’t stop

I should just write “Hi Mum” and keep it moving, but in the interest of getting myself to a point of fatigue so extreme that I drop asleep despite the skull-crushing agony, I’ll expound.

It is an indisputable fact of life that the more annoying a person’s voice is, the more they like to hear themselves talk. This is the logic that propelled Michel’le to embark on a singing career, Fran Drescher to become an actress, and Bobcat Goldthwait to take on stand up comedy. People who are no fun to listen to feel compelled to assault the people around them with the sound of their voices. And when I am the unwilling victim of these aural assailants, my eyes begin to frantically dart back and forth in search of an escape route. If I don’t find one, I have about 4.7 minutes before my skin starts to crawl. About 2.3 minutes more before a scream starts to bubble in my throat. And 3.9 minutes more before I stuff my fingers in my ears and bellow ‘SHUT UP!”.

4. Trying not to cave.

Ever really wanted to talk to someone but – for whatever reason – you didn’t want to be the one to cave? You do the absolute most to stop yourself from dialing their number – delete their contact info, sign out of all IM programs, block them on Twitter, sit on your hands. And of course the more you think about talking to them and the more you try to stop yourself from caving, the more alluring the prospect of speaking to them becomes. To paraphrase the great Anais Nin, this is a kind of hell to me. It’s particularly bad when it’s someone who by rights you should be able to hit up freely like your boyfriend of your bestie. But due to some deep and unforgivable bullshit that has gone down, he has to be the one to contact you first. I’d almost rather have a toothache than try to stop myself from hitting up someone I want to talk to but can’t.

 5. Being forced to refuse imminent sex

This is similar to #4, but even worse because it involves fucking.  You know the deal – there’s someone you want to fuck who is trying hard to fuck you but for some very good and compelling reason, fucking that person is the worst idea ever. No human being should ever have to endure this torture.  Having to remove the hand that is massaging your thigh up high enough to feel the heat radiating from your pussy. Removing your hand from the neckline of a blouse after it has felt the softness of the titty. Saying “no” and “stop” not in the whispery voice that really means “yes” and “more”, but with enough basso to make it clear you mean it. Having to end an epically smutty gchat because you know your fingers are about to write a cheque your pussy shouldn’t be cashing. Being forced to slink to your bed alone to finish off the job yourself. It all requires a level of strength no human being should ever possess.

And there you have it – my list of fates more painful to endure than death. What’s on your list? Speak on it in the comments.

No related posts.

But while the sheer hawtness of the books alone is reason enough to cop them, there is another, more interesting aspect to the stories that I find really compelling. Without giving too much of the story away, the books centre around a couple with a dark side. The woman – young, naive, and inexperienced – falls for the man who is powerful, domineering, and heavily in to BDSM. This makes not only for some seriously panty-soaking sex scenes, but also for an endless power struggle between the two of them.

What distinguishes the books from regular garden-variety porn (which  - don’t get me wrong – is a beautiful thing) is how the theme of possession and domination manifests not only in their bedroom (and playroom, but you’ll have to read the books to find out more about that) but throughout their life. The man seeks to control, possess, and dominate his woman in every aspect of her life and her struggle to find a middle ground between being the submissive partner he wants and being a self-actualized person in her own right is really interesting.

See as far as I can tell, there are three types of women in the world: those who refuse to be controlled, possessed, or dominated by their man in any way shape or form (aka single women), those who say they want it but chafe against possession the minute it interrupts her plans, and those who are able to submit to their men without having an existential crisis about it.

Most women think they’re #3 when they’re actually #2. That’s where I am, and that’s where homegirl in the book is a lot of the time. And from observing her struggle in the books, I wonder whether it’s even possible in this day and age for any woman to succeed at being fully possessed. It’s all well and good for a man to tell you your pussy belongs to him and he can do what he wants with it, but what about your wardrobe? Your social circle? Your career? Your name?

To hear mr. man in the book tell it, everything about his woman belongs to him. He has the final say in every aspect of her life. And her punishment for defying him is swift, often brutal, and fucking hot. When I read the books, I find myself shaking my head at her perpetual disobedience. Unlike most men, he makes his expectations crystal clear, so why doesn’t she just do what the fuck he says? But I know from my own experience that it’s easier said than done.

Or maybe she just disobeys him because his punishments always involve blindfolds, handcuffs, and earth-shattering orgasms. I can get with that.

Whether you want to possess your woman or be possessed by your man or not, these books are definitely worth checking out. Worst case scenario, you get some food for thought about what the ideal relationship dynamic should be. Best case, you get that and some very pleasant throbbing in your nether regions.

But what do you guys think? Have any of you read the books? Did it make you want to hand someone a riding crop and encourage them to go to town, or were you horrified by the perversion? How does the theme of possessing or being possessed manifest in your relationships? Speak on it in the comments.

Related posts:

1. Several Shades of Asshole

In the meantime, have a great weekend.

No related posts.

I really believe that smoking makes me great. I would be a miserable cranky bitch without it and my best ideas – and my best posts – come to me when I’m inhaling the sweet smell of burning nicotine, carbon monoxide, and whatever the hell else makes cigarettes such a beautiful, alluring thing.  But alas, the time has come yet again for me to start saying goodbye.

My longtime readers will remember that two years ago on the eve of my 35th birthday I wrote about quitting smoking. Yeah, about that. It didn’t happen. But quitting is a process, right? So I’m freshly in to yet another attempt to say goodbye to my longtime and faithful companion, the demon weed.

I’m about a week in to a 12-week process and I have some thoughts to share.

1. iPhone app life is real.

I wouldn’t even be contemplating this move if there weren’t an app for it. That’s the truth. If I’m expected to invoke the powers of willpower and determination and the desire to live longer to separate me from my favourite thing on earth, I’m a goner. But there’s an app for it? I’m game.

2. People who make quitting smoking apps have clearly never been smokers

There are about 5783 apps to help you quit smoking. And about 5778 aren’t worth a damn. There are apps that tell you how many minutes you’ve added to your life every time you don’t smoke. There are apps that tell you how much money you’ve saved. Apps that prompt you to look at a picture of your loved ones every time you want to smoke. And apps that tell you exactly how long it’s been since your last smoke.

Let me tell you something  - if you are a real smoker and you’re trying to quit, you know exactly how long it’s been since that filter last touched your lips. The money you’re saving is little consolation because it’s all going to stuffing your face and loading up on gum. Your loved ones? Fuck those assholes. They’re the reason you’re going through this torture right now. And those 11 minutes I’ve added to my life don’t mean a damn.

3. 37 minutes is a long ass time

The app I’m using is a timer that tells me when I’m allowed to smoke. The idea is that a) the time between cigarettes will gradually increase so by my quit date I’ll be able to go fr’ages without smoking. And b)removing the link between smoking and activities (i.e. post meals, post sex, during  phone calls) and affixing and arbitrary schedule to it makes it less a reward and more of a chore.

When I first started using the app I thought “wow I can have a smoke every 37 mintues? This is going to be easy!”. But when you are having a nic fit, 37 minutes takes about 2.7 years to go by. I may very well through this phone out the fucking window.

4. Life between cigarettes is kinda dull

I always wondered what people who don’t smoke do. Like – what do you do when you’re mad, or bored, or waiting for your toast to pop? Now I know. You stand around doing nothing. At least with a cigarette in my hand I’m always doing something – I’m smoking. Without one I’m just superfluous.

6. Inspiration lives in cigarettes

I’ll tell you the truth: I came thisclose to not writing a damn word today. I had no idea what to write about and my normal inspiration-inspiring trick of having a contemplative cigarette is off the table. So I was like fuck this. But then I clued in that the pain of quitting smoking is actually an excellent blog topic. For me, anyway. For you guys maybe not so much.

7. It’s not as enraging as I thought

Don’t get me wrong, this sucks. And I’ve barely begun. But I thought I would be a lot more angry than I have been. I envisioned myself throwing things and flying into random rages. Instead I’m just going through life with a lowgrade tightness in my chest, counting down the minutes til sweet relief.

I’m pretty sure the rage is coming. Soon. I just hope Mr. Max is within throwing distance when that happens since this is largely his fault.

And that’s all I got for you today. I know I said 10 thoughts but I only have one thought right now: I WANT TO SMOKE. And although I know the last 3 thoughts would flood instantly into my brain with my first inhale, that would be counterproductive.

Normally I’d ask you guys for advice or words of encouragement to help me on my journey but a) it probably wouldn’t help and b) you guys are some silent motherfuckers so I’ll just close this off with the three words that sum up my life right now:

I WANT TO SMOKE.

Oh wait. That’s four words. Apparently the only thing I can count right now is minutes til my next cigarette. Only 6:48 to go!

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1. This is the end, beautiful friend (Max in Real Life)

At first the conversation brought me back to my days with The Spectacular Asshole, versions 1 and 2, but after a while my mind shifted to the present day. You see, lately there’s been a fair bit of ire in my heart toward Mr. Max. Not to air our dirty laundry on the e-streets, but I haven’t really been feeling the lo- you know what lately. Suffice it to say that while there are many many days that I will describe that man as fucking awesome, yesterday was not one of them.

But as I listened to my girl spew example after example of the shittiest behaviour in the history of relationships, I couldn’t help but feel a relieved to know that I’m sooo past that shit. Not because I’m any smarter or better than she, but because I’m lucky enough to be with someone who would never do that kind of shit. And that’s not because he’s necessarily any better than her (former) guy, he’s just not wired that way. And once that relief set in, I started to just…appreciate my mister in a way I haven’t been lately.

Like a lot of women, I suffer from martyr syndrome. My mind keeps a running catalogue of wrongs committed against me by the people I’m close to. I may not always speak on them, but I always remember them. And when the tally gets too high I start feeling put upon and resentful. In my default rational state I’m able to see both sides, but once martyr mode kicks in I start to forget the good things, I don’t consider their point of view, I don’t understand or give the benefit of the doubt. I heave great big “poor me” sighs and wallow in my own persecution.

As anyone who has ever been in a relationship can tell you, this ain’t a good place to be. Like I’ve said in the past, resentment breeds bad behaviour and you have to stop it before it takes root. But to do that requires maturity and proactivity and sometimes it’s hard to summon those kinds of qualities when you feel like the dumping ground for the ones you love.

But every now and then the universe – as it is wont to do – delivers you a message that basically amounts to “Get over yourself and appreciate the good shit that you have because most people have it way worse than you do. You fucking baby”. That conversation with my girl yesterday was my message from the universe. And so as I finally extricated myself from our talk and flew down Bloor Street to meet my sister. I had to stop and text my mister three little words: I appreciate you. Doesn’t mean I’m not still angry, doesn’t mean there isn’t shit that needs to be addressed, all it means is despite all that, I’m grateful to have him.

The other day I listened to a couple debate about what the most important quality is to a relationship. She said love, he said trust. Then someone else chimed in and said it was respect. But you know what I think it is? Appreciation. Gratitude. Thankfulness for who that person is and for the their presence in your life.

So go out and appreciate someone today.

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